


Black Flood: A Tale of the Trolloc Wars

by pkwraith



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 64,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pkwraith/pseuds/pkwraith
Summary: A Wheel of Time story.Before the Dragon Reborn and before the Last Battle, terrible war came to the Westlands in the bloody Trolloc Wars that ravaged the Second Covenant.  The ancient heroes stood against the terrible onslaught, most importantly Manetheren and the Band of Red Hand.  This is their story.  Of triumph and tragedy, love and loss, and men, women, and war.
Kudos: 1





	1. Reinforcements

#  Prologue

_ One thousand years After the Breaking, unstoppable waves of Shadowspawn stormed out from the Blasted Land, led by vengeful Myrddraal and Dreadlords to raze the Westlands. The Ten Nations of the Second Covenant stood against this inundation: Coremanda, Aelgar, Almoren, Aramaelle, Aridhol, Eharon, Essenia, Jaramide, Safer, and Manetheren. Heroes of tragedy and destiny collided with the Dark One's forces. One of the most unforgettable groups of those heroes was the Band of the Red Hand, the Sword that could not be Broken. Memories still linger of those men of courage and vigor, chronicled in the Ballad of the Band... _

_ "The Old Blood sings of a mighty Band, _

_ The infamous guardians of the Land. _

_ The Dark One 'self felt the bite of the Thorn, _

_ The bravest souls whom ever born. _

_ Forever live those bold Red Hand!" _

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

#  Chapter One: Reinforcements

Sergeant Stef Reimos tugged at his frayed red cloak, pulling it closer. He shivered and wrapped it tightly around his body in an effort to cut out the wind. He was always cold nowadays. The frigid Aramaelle air froze his lungs when he inhaled and came out in a thick steam. He plunged through the high packed snow along with the rest of T’Eldrene Company.

His exposed face felt scarred from the harsh dry winds, and he earnestly wished for a thicker cloak and better boots. He walked mechanically; the long monotonous snowdrifts remained the same for miles, as the snake of red-cloaked soldiers marched through the white wilderness. The only break from the mind-numbing monotony was the back of the soldier walking before him, the blood red hand stitched to that faded cloak claiming his vision.

The only sound was the cracking of snow being trampled beneath and the howling winds. Like most, he had long stopped talking, with each voice drawing more cold air into his already frozen lungs to steal his precious life heat.

Stef wished for the warm hearth of the Mafel Dadaranell Keep where T’Eldrene Company had stayed a few days ago... was it days? Weeks? How long has it been? How much time has passed since the company had left Manetheren? The snow swallowed time as much as heat. All he could remember were long days of cold march, sometimes a warm fire in a town or city, more often sleeping covered in cloak and the issued blanket.

Although only twenty-four years old, his body felt ancient. He could feel the ravages of ten hard years of enlistment now heightened by the vast cold. And he was one of the lucky ones. Two decades in this cruel world was a luxury for a frontline soldier. 

T’Eldrene Company had been sent north to reinforce the main body of the Band of Red Hand, the famous name of the Grand Legion of Manetheren. The Band had seen its numbers chiseled down by attrition of sword and cold. Like all Companies in the Manetheren legions, it was named after one of the guardians of Manetheren. They marched for the honor of Queen Eldrene, the beautiful Rose of the Sun. Since the Trolloc Wars had begun, the main body of the Band of Red Hand had rode to the thickest knots of fighting. Right now, the Band had taken up residence in northern Aramaelle, where it could do the most damage and the most good, and occasionally revitalized by new bodies like T’Eldrene from the Mountain Home when their numbers begin to dwindle dangerously.

Stef took an appraisal of the vast land, and saw the black Mountains of Dhorom etching the sky around the company. The company had just entered the vast mountain range named after the famed Sentinel Dhorom, stretching from the cliffside coasts of Jaramide in the west to the Spine of the World in the east.

A faint but clear note from a horn far ahead shattered the silence, its blast drawing Stef immediately to attention. A second note followed quickly. The sergeant stiffened to the familiar sound.

"Trouble?" A nearby foot soldier asked. Stef placed the voice to a young recruit, Cordin Brogan, part of his squad, who had recently enlisted before the Company had left for the North.

"Something like that. The pickets ran into spawns." Stef replied, distracted. His eyes skimmed around the pale white horizon, searching furtively. 

"If it's a full host, we'll be boiling in a pot tonight." A soldier beside him muttered.

"Well, then it’s about time we had a hot bath, Tayren." Stef retorted to his Second, but he knew the brash soldier’s words to be true. The 250-men company was a force in its own right, but was a drop against a trolloc host that could number in the thousands. But there was no time for doubt. He drew his sword out from his red-stained leather scabbard and hefted its weight in his arm. His frozen joints groaned in protest. He ranged his arms and neck, forcing the memory of movement back into his stiff body.

Orders rippled through the line of men, and the soldiers began to split into defensive formation, infantry forming up at the perimeter with archers jostling for position.

"My squad with me!" Stef shouted over the voices of others and plunged through the snow towards the edge. As he reached the perimeter, he could now see the rapidly approaching shapes of the scouts racing towards the safety of the main body. Behind them appeared the hulking and unmistakable figures of Trollocs, the grotesque half-animal half-human footsoldiers of the Dark armies. Their terrible black line cut through the edge of the horizon. Thumping drums of war hammered through the air and could be felt in the bones. And they came.

The Trollocs poured down the snowy plains as the ground shivered at their approach. Cloud of powder snow agitated violently into the pale blue sky. They charged like a rolling avalanche of violence. Though the sergeant was experienced in engagements, even he had to keep a tight rein on the internal knot of animal instinct screaming for him to flee.

When the human armies first met the Trolloc armies at the start of the war two hundred years ago, it was nothing but a disastrous and epic loss of human life. The Second Covenant was simply not ready. The massive strength and unquenchable blood lust of the Trolloc Armies had reaped through the human armies in a bloody harvest, until the Shadow finally broke on the unlikely, desperate alliance of Saferi phalanx and the Manetheren archers. But now they had learned their lessons upon the graves of the past. Now, the Manetheren steel and its legion stood ready, the lessons of the past etched deep in their bones, their sword quenched in the blood of the thousands dead before their time.

The squad formed besides Stef , a small segment of the perimeter lines. The entire infantry line shifted in anticipation.

"Let's make this a good one! Stay together!" He shouted, adding to the roar of hundreds of voices.

Those dark hulking shapes came on, faster than humanly appeared. Their enormous size dwarfed an average human, and their strides were deceptive, leaping across the snowdrift with unholy speed. Stef grabbed the ring that hung on a thong around his neck, kissed it for luck, and slipped it protectively inside his jerkin. A flight of arrows flew over Stef’s head, to feather the oncoming shadowspawns. Many fell, but more howled in blood rage, ignorant of their wounds. Another flight of arrows took off. A third.

And then the spawns arrived, smashing into the infantry lines. The sword in Stef’s hands flashed and parried desperately. The Trollocs bore long wicked swords of massive weight and enormous spiked mattocks. Sharp pain streaked up his arm as his sword barely deflected a massive blow, nearly sending his weapon flying.

The beast gave a pained howl when Tayren rushed under his defense and sliced through the flesh of the beast's leg. Stef took that opportunity to lunge in and bury his sword through its massive chest. He barely had time to pull the bloodied sword out before the creature collapsed to the ground.

The sergeant gave a quick nod to Tayren and leaped into the carnage again. The heat of battle boiled over, cold steel and burning blood intermingled. Then, there were no more to kill.

Stef exhaled and took a reading of the carnage. The Trollocs had numbered barely a fist, wild and unorganized, a rare gem these days, with most Shadowspawn hosts totaling in the thousands. While the main Band of Red Hand could hold its own against many a shadow host, T’Eldrene would have barely been a nuisance to a host, a light snack, no matter how determined. However this time, the readiness of the Band had made short work of the attacking foes, with minimal loss.

"Victory!" The cry roared. Stef licked his cracked lips, and kept a wary gaze towards the dense clusters of pines scattered around that could hide many lurking spawns. He stooped and wiped his blade on the snow, the dark blood staining the white crimson. Satisfied that it was mostly clean, he sheathed the sword.

"A taste of battle." Stef gave a measuring look at the soldiers in the squad. All of them had survived, more or less. Cordin was wide-eyed, but his sword was stained and spawn blood smeared his face. He was the only raw tyro in Stef's squad, the rest having seen their share of battle.

"Savor it while you can." Tayren Suturb grunted in agreement, "that was just a delicate appetizer." Tayren had already served in some northern patrols, and knew the reality. His tall lanky frame knew battle, and a grim scar stretching his face attested to it. He had a good head on his shoulder, and Stef knew he could trust him with the squad if he died, though he was not yet looking forward to that.

The groans of the wounded punctuated the air, and Stef moved forward to help. Grimacing, he kneeled beside a fallen infantryman, an oozing stump where an arm should have belonged. Its owner groaned softly but the blood loss was beginning to take its toll. Stef tore off strips of the soldier's red cloak and began to hastily bandage the wound. Dark red blotches immediately blossomed onto the already red fabric as he aggressively held pressure until the bleeding seemed to staunch. Young Cordin came beside him, licking his lips nervously.

"Help me with this, will ya?" Stef grunted. Cordin glanced down, looked decidedly uneasy, but grabbed the moaning soldier by his good arm. With Cordin's help, Stef carried the soldier onto an awaiting stretcher. Two red-armed medics carried him off, towards the temporary hospital tent.

"Not too bad for your first time, kid." Stef glanced at Cordin. He looked barely over 'scripting age, but from what he remembered from the battle, was not a coward and could fight decently. Not a grizzled veteran by any measure--neither was Stef--but the recruit was getting there

"Thank you sir," Cordin answered hesitantly.

"The sooner we get moving, the sooner we can meet up with Cathon's army. Wherever they are." Stef remarked and rubbed his stained hands on the snow. The cleansing white soaked up most of the blood, but Stef could still feel the blood staining his hands dark red like his cloak. Seeing that the wounded were removed, he gave a wave, and he and the squad trudged back. The perimeter of the defense began to collapse into itself and formed back into the long line of cold marching soldiers.

Looking back, Stef saw the hospital tent going down as well.

"Patched up as fast they could be," Tayren said, almost reading Stef’s mind, "Right back into the march if they could walk. And for those who meet the bone-saw, they get transported around like barley."

Stef nodded grimly. The Trolloc Wars had taught many lessons. If you were in hostile territory, mobility equals survival. If they remained in one spot too long, chances are good that they would be swarmed by ten times the number within the hour. There would be no relative safety until they could link up with the Grand Legion. 

"Don't know whether to feel sorry for them or jealous." Tayren grunted, "A free ride sounds nice around now. Even if I do have to lose an arm."

Once more, scouts moved out, disappearing over the snowy mounds.

Stef grunted, feeling the cold seeping into his bones again, and tramped on once more through the white infinity.


	2. The Storm Lord

#  Chapter Two: The Storm Lord

The Storm Lord stood upon the rise, his gaze sweeping far across the snow-covered plains. The black vermin of spawns dotted the far distance like cancerous growth. He regarded a particularly large cluster of the foul beasts and raised his hand in a fist.

The heavens wept fire and rain of unyielding stone upon them. That cluster was shattered, dying and dead spawns littering the pure whiteness.

"BRAVO!" Lieutenant General Diest Arcanum bellowed, his voice a deep thunderous boom, one reason for his nickname. He was a large man, muscled and cloaked in Band red. He glanced with pride at his assembly of catapults perched on the crest of the hill, spewing burning naphtha and bone-crushing boulders upon the distant spawns. The main body of the Band of Red Hand, nearly two hundred thousand strong, was arrayed around the massive snow-covered hill. His fascination with siege weapons was attested to by the fact that his Thunder Legion was almost entirely composed of Ballistic Banners.

The fleet of ballistic machines at his disposal was the very best. Arcanum had seen to  _ that _ . Those light-weight tension catapults were, as some would call it, his obsession. Scaled down from the heavier siege catapults, they could keep up with the ever-moving Band, even through snow or sleet. Each crafted by master engineers from the finest Ogier sungwood. They were the shining stars of Manetheren; his shining stars. 

The Storm Lord pulled his lips back in a sneer, and made his way through the nearest battery. A team of loaders had just finished cutting out a massive block of ice from the side of the hill. With the convenient amount of ice always present in the north, who needed to carry boulders?

Arcanum gazed at the man-sized mounds behind the catapults. Even covered with leather canvas and buried in snow, they were always a weight on his mind. Each one of those buried clay barrels contained either naphtha or witch's brew. Any stray spark, however rare they were and…

Arcanum shuddered. He had already lost one catapult to a loader’s careless mistake dealing with those volatile liquids. He glanced at his hands; both were scarred by fire on the back.

Arcanum shook his head and watched his men again. The ice block was already loaded, and the Observer gave a shout. The boulder of ice arched through the air, diminishing rapidly into the sky. Arcanum followed the frozen missile with a practiced eye, and grunted with satisfaction as it slammed into an enemy siege weapon.

"Good eye, soldier." Arcanum pulled out his watch-glass and set it to his eye. Watch-glasses were indeed rare these days; Arcanum had to pull all his strings as a Lieutenant-General to obtain one. He saw the crushed figure of the spawn rock-thrower and gave a snort of derision. Crude was the kindest word he could say about it. Onagers of bad design always irritated him, no matter which army they were deployed for. The Hordes rarely used any ranged weapons, lacking even basic archers in most of their armies. Onagers were their preferred siege weapon, but most of the time did not work or killed their own crews.

"Thank you, sir." The observer answered, his eyes still casting the distance for viable targets while the loaders heaved on another ice boulder, "I tuned the hoist personally. Cold weather's distorting the wood. But the accuracy should be correct now."

Arcanum recognized the wind-scarred observer as a Captain Cydin Blake, a proud young man, somewhat naïve. Odd at times, but good at his craft. Arcanum considered his words, and nodded.

"You have something there." Arcanum stroked his chin thoughtfully, "the accuracy of the catapults have degraded lately; I will speak to the other cat crews about correcting the windlass."

"If they had any skill, they should've recognized it already," Blake replied disdainfully, "Five slack...half-range...FIRE!"

The whistle announced another projectile leaping toward the enemy lines. Arcanum watched as it slammed into a thick formation of spawns. Captain Blake will go quite far in the Thunder Legion, Arcanum noted to himself.

Finishing with the inspection, he strode through the snow, past those ominous mounds of barrels, and came to his latest machine ordered from HQ. The Ballista was pulled by three large draft horses up towards the edge of the bluff towards the rest of the cats. The giant wheeled crossbow rolled across the snow, its sinuous bolt gleaming.

"About time." Arcanum licked his chapped lips, eyes gleaming. 

"Freshly built as ordered. We got stuck in a snowdrift." The Ballista's observer replied, "Major Drov Borsy."

"Diest Arcanum." The two shook with gloved hands.

"The Storm Lord?" Borsy smirked, "should've guessed you would be the one to have it dubbed the  _ Aclare _ ."

"The Thunderbolt." Arcanum said, and watched as it reached its destination and was unhitched.

"You have the honor for its maiden shot." Borsy bowed and grinned.

"Don't mind if I do." The two men strolled over to the machine. Some nearby batteries gave it a curious look, but returned to their own cats.

Arcanum studied the long bolt perched in the carriage. A large sturdy oak javelin with a steel-tipped head, it could completely punch through an armored soldier's plate and body. There were some stories that boasted of ballista bolts slamming through as much as ten bodies, though Arcanum gave those little credit. But looking at that wicked missile, Arcanum pondered if it truly might be possible.

Arcanum scanned the enemy lines with his glass and saw that the spawn assaults were deteriorating and most of their forces had retreated. But his gaze came upon one last wave, this time led by a black-cloaked Myrddraal riding in the midst. The eyeless rider stopped his horse barely out of archer range and raised its black sword in the air. The hulking trollocs streamed around it, attempting to slam through the Band's infantry lines.

"Perfect. Three...four slack...full range...third arc..." The creaking of wood behind Arcanum told him that its crew was moving into action. The Myrddraal still remained in one place, but suddenly its face turned upwards. If the Halfman had possessed eyes, Arcanum would have sworn they were focused on him.

"FIRE!" Arcanum boomed. With a roar of tension being unleashed, the huge bolt flashed across the battlefield. His gaze continued to be fixed upon the shadowy rider, who remained motionless-- not even his black cloak stirred.

The bolt flashed through the view circle of the watch-glass, and punched a hole through a Trolloc beside the Myrddraal. The Myrddraal's black stallion reared and he rode out of view.

Arcanum cursed vehemently, "The Dark One's own luck."

"Not terribly accurate for personnel targets." Borsy noted, "But it'll do. It seems better for larger targets, such as ships. We have some designs for water-born ballistas, and they’ll sure be handy when Trollocs learn to  _ sail _ ." The engineer chuckled at his own joke.

A cry came rushing through the ranks, interrupting Arcanum's response.

"Victory!"

" _ Ni’von Ganei _ !"

"For the Band!"

"The Band of Red Hand!"

Arcanum took a viewing through his glass and saw that the last wave of spawns had been crushed, fleeing like disturbed ants.

"Alright, men! Get some canvas on those engines. Looks like we'll be camping here." Arcanum roared, "If they try again, we'll lick'em again!"

As his men scrambled to cast covers on their cats to protect them from the cold and damp, the sun began to sink. Arcanum eagerly anticipated a warm fire...far away from the naphtha of course.


	3. The Beginning of an End

#  Chapter Three: The Beginning of an End

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon flexed his fingers, stiffened by cold and age, and gazed at the aftermath of the battle of the hill. He felt old, as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his shoulder. Which was technically true. He had been in command of this Grand-Legion of the Band of Red Hand for...fifteen years ( _ has it been that long? _ ), moving up through the officer ranks, through a combination of skill and harsh fatalities of previous commanders.

He tugged at the beard at his chin, almost as if he just discovered it existed. He remembered when he used to shave everyday. But, it kept his face warm, and shaving supplies were non-existent, considering that the grand-legion now camped hundreds of leagues from civilization in the midst of a hostile territory. And a half world away from his home. He had not seen his family in twenty years or the silent woods where he had explored during his youth...the Sandbars and the giant buried bones inside that were made of rock...the great Halls of the Citadel and the voices that echo forever in their vaulted arches...the most beautiful woman he had known dancing with flowers in her hair…

"Sir?" A voice broke through the faint echoes of home. Cathon shook his head sadly.  _ All the things that we fight for. If only I could believe we are winning… _

"Yes?" He replied.

"The Butcher's Bill is in." Nathen Austern, his Adjutant, stood patiently by Cathon's horse.

Cathon sighed, "What did we pay?"

"A hundred and ten infantry casualties. Most of them concentrated in Zephyr, which took the brunt of the spawn assault. Thirty-two cavalry. Fifty horses. And almost half of Raisse's 133rd Banner."

Cathon gazed at the battlefield, and mentally replayed the battle in his head, "Less than I had expected. Some would call it extraordinarily small, considering what we faced. But we cannot continue to lose this much in every engagement. We cannot  _ afford _ to."

"It is only the first time we tried the Bashere Gambit. I am sure that next time, we can be more efficient with it." Nathen noted.

"Yes, and we can be even better the third. And then the Spawns learn. They counter it. By the fifth engagement it becomes useless. The longer they drag on the war, the more they win. Even if every one of the Band destroys ten spawns, twenty more come to replace them. It is time for that staff meeting we discussed before, Nathen."

The adjutant nodded and walked off, his faded cloak trailing behind him.

Cathon sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair. His once raven hair was streaked with gray now. It was a rare occasion, almost non-existent, for an officer to stay alive more than ten years in the Trolloc Wars. The only thing keeping him alive was his luck. Luck was all he had. But Luck is a horse to ride like any other, although a fickle horse at that.

Cathon nudged his horse with his knee and began to move towards HQ. His thirtieth horse. The wars in the north had been the harshest against horses, with hidden trip-holes hidden by snow, and their bulk making for prominent targets. He had stopped bothering to name them.

He nodded to the soldiers that he passed, huddled around campfires in tattered red cloaks. Sometimes he stopped to speak a few words or offer a word of encouragement.

"Sir, are we winning?" A soldier asked. He looked to be no older than twenty, but his eyes had the grim set of a veteran who had seen battles.

"We are." Cathon smiled reassuringly. Both the soldier and Cathon knew it was a lie. But, the soldier simply nodded and returned to his fire. The soldier looked gaunt with sunken cheeks. Their rations were at all time minimum down with barely enough to sustain life. 

Cathon tried to remember when the last supply convoy came in. A month ago at the most recent. Supply lines were suffering appallingly. With meager amount of armed escort, they were easy prey to the spawns that ranged throughout Aramaelle. And because the Band kept moving, any supply trains that survived spawn raids had to scour the land before finding them. And  _ then _ they had to make the journey back. The bravest of men were not those who carried a banner into battle, but those who rode the caravans through dangerous land, so that others may live to fight, and rode those caravans back into the shadows of obscurity, while generals claim the victory.

Cathon came towards the main tent in HQ and dismounted. A stable boy took the reins from his hands.

Lights emanated through the canvas walls, evidence that the generals had already gathered. Cathon adjusted his frayed cloak and ducked in.

He blinked and felt the tendrils of heat warming his body. The fire in the middle of the tent crackled and popped, its smoke streaming through the break in the tent ceiling.

Cathon noted the familiar faces circled around the fire, many of whom have been with him through much of his command. Cathon sat down at the space left for him, and lifted his hands towards the fire, the thin warmth seeping in.

" _ Bandor Lu'tra e Shen an Calhar. _ " Lieutenant General Stren Vader greeted him.

" _ Tai'shar Manetheren. _ " Cathon replied. He met the eyes of every one of the waiting generals for the five Legions. Vader of the First Legion, Arcanum of Thunder Legion, Hill of Zephyr Hawk, Notar of Black Moon, and Diadrem of True Blade Legion. Then his eyes came upon a particular ageless face. Two green eyes met his, a cool and calculating look. She was knitting, but set down her needles. That one kept her emotions sealed, but he could see the flickering of curiosity on her delicate brow.

"A victory today!" Lieutenant General Deist Arcanum proclaimed his booming voice.

"More  _ victories _ like this, and it won't be long before we lose the war." Major-General Hill replied. His Zephyr Hawks had suffered the worst fatalities.

"Better than a defeat." Arcanum retorted.

"I agree with Hill." Cathon cut in, "we  _ are _ losing. Sure, we're winning battles. Undefeated so far. But, we're still losing.

"We lost close to a company today, and we'll keep losing them. This...war has gone on for two hundred some years. All we have known in life is war. T’Eldrene Company will arrive soon, if she makes it, she will cover the losses  _ this _ time. But there will be no more reinforcements after T’Eldrene's for a very long time. The last unclaimed men in the Mountain Home are in that company. Manetheren is bled dry of men. Anyone who is able to carry a blade or staff is fighting. And dying. Our crops have long wilted and our homes lie entombed in dust and cobwebs. The Band of Red Hand will lose. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But the hardest rock will not withstand two hundred years of storm and flood."

The grim eyes that met his own were without emotion.

Major General Jot Diadrem steepled his fingers, and leaned forward, "Then what are we to do."

"We end it." Cathon spoke softly, "Gentlemen, we have long seen that tall black visage like a dagger in the sky, in the long years we have been entrenched in Northern Aramaelle. In a long war, we will lose, and this war has gone long enough, as it is. We must strike the heart of the Darkness."

A veil of thick silence descended in the tent. Stunned faces met him. Arcanum’s jaw was agape.

"Shayol Ghul." Finally, a soft melodic voice said shattered the silence.

"Shayol Ghul." Cathon repeated, and met those liquid green eyes.

"You truly believe you can take it?" She coolly remarked and picked up her needles again, resuming her work. There was the briefest flicker of the corner of her lip. 

"That's what I'm going to find out, Airene Sedai."

Some of the commanders were visibly uneased. Others eyeing the Marshall General like he had gone crazy. Cathon saw Arcanum now sputtering, struggling to find words that would not outright affront Cathon.

"When you are outnumbered, and surrounded," Vader was the first to find his words. His voice was calm and composed like rich leather. He stirred the fire, causing it to flicker and dance, "the only option is to attack."

Cathon just realized he was holding his breath and he let it out. "I have faith in the Band. I have faith in the commanders. I have faith in the men. And frankly, we don't have much choice." Cathon said.

There was a silence, filled with only the crackle of the fire, as the generals silently contemplated it. Cathon could feel the sense of momentum shifting in the room. 

"It may be so. We'll need supplies." Seth Notar broke the second silence. Cathon gave a nod. The generals had agreed. Deep down inside, Cathon had wished some would disagree. As a sane man, he didn't want to die, which the assault on Shayol Ghul would most likely render. But, like him, the commanders all knew the truth and what must be done. Cathon had only said aloud what was already lurking in each of the generals’ minds. 

"T’Eldrene Company will be bringing in the sufficient supplies. Anything else?" Cathon glanced at Airene Andalusa. The Aes Sedai advisor from Tar Valon met his glance again, and remained silent and her emotions unreadable. No microexpressions this time.

"To Shayol Ghul we go." General Hill placed a hand over the dying fire. The hand seemed to glow red with the radiance of the fire.

Cathon reached out, and placed his right hand upon Hill's hand. Four more hands joined, glowing red in the fire's range.

"For the Band."

"The Band of Red Hand."

The fire flickered and died, its embers glowing for a second before fading into blackness.


	4. Last Sons of Manetheren

A blood red sun rose over the mountains of Dhorom, its light casting black shadows into its many jagged crevasses.

Stef Reimos shielded his eyes as he gazed up at the sun and wished that it was closer. He put all his bitter cold soul and body and heart into that wish. But alas, the Creator did not listen, and it looked to Stef’s wind-reddened eyes that the sun was even more distant. Steff glanced back down to see the last foothills of the Dhoroms within sight.

T’Eldrene Company had traveled all night through the dangerous passes. One soldier had made a fatal misstep, falling into the darkness, never to be seen again. Thankfully, most took heed at this and found caution. Some had even taken to calling it the Mountains of Dhoom. An apt nickname and maybe someday Dhoom will be all that remains, when memories fade and names slip. The trek was slow and laborious, but they had lost no one else. At dawn, they had finally passed the mountains into Northern Aramaelle. Stef was tired and cold and extremely irritable, and was showing it.

"Hurry up, you milksops. And what the bloody ashes are YOU doing?" Stef growled at two of his men who seemed to be throwing balls of snow at each other during a march break, "One'd think you never saw snow before. The Creator damn me if I never saw this white slop again. Come on, git."

"Well, Steff, you're cheerful today."

Tayren grinned. He looked so cheery that Stef felt like punching him in his face. Or at least tapping him on the head with a sap.

Stef grunted, "We'd better link up to the Grand Legion soon. My bloody foot's frozen, my bloody face is frozen, and I haven't felt my bloody toes in days. I  _ think _ I am still alive; but the only proof I have is this bloody, forsaken headache. And that could very well be the death spasm. For all I care, the spawns can keep Aramaelle."

Tayren nodded his head towards the front of the company, "Well, looks like your wish has come true, Sarge."

Stef followed Tayren's gaze, and saw, as the Company came over the last snow-covered ridge, a multitude of tents spread over a vast hill. In the middle were the Caldazar and Red Hand, flying proudly.

"Well...look at that." Stef grunted, his eyes capturing all the details of the camp. The sprawling encampment seemed to be concentrated around a rising, with tents in ring, enough for thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Squinting, Stef could make out tarp-covered mounds on the top of the hill, which could only be siege engines.

The front of the company entered the camp and it appeared the line was meandering towards the top of the hill. As Stef passed the perimeter, he inclined his head at the pickets who were gnawing on rations. Their cloaks were just as frayed as Stef’s, but their spears were well kept and their eyes were alert as they attempted to break their fast, and apparently their teeth in the process. At that sight, Stef’s stomach gurgled, and he looked forward to breakfast, even if it was thin barley soup or frozen bread heels.

As T’Eldrene Company passed through the rings of tents, red-clad soldiers exited their tents to see the newcomers, milling around in excitement. Reinforcements brought supplies and most importantly, news and reunions. Stef saw two long separated brothers embrace, and he glanced around to see if he could find someone he knew. But though some looked vaguely familiar, the majority of these soldiers had left Manetheren five, ten years ago. Everywhere, soldiers began to call out questions.

"How is Manetheren?"

"Does anyone know..."

"...Twelfth Acre..."

"How are the people at..."

"My family, the Condas?"

"...please!"

Stef’s desperately searching eyes finally found what it seeked.

"Da!" Stef called. He broke out of line and clasped the older man pushing out from the crowd. His father had changed so much. His hair had turned completely white, intense lines creased his face, and his eyes seemed to be paler and older. 

"Stef," Jorj Reimos said as he stepped back, "I had heard you signed up. I can't say I am surprised." The older man seemed to hold himself back, muted in reuniting with his son, instead showing a sense of sadness in his hard face.

"I can make my own decisions. I've fought and served. Like you." Then Stef Reimos hesitated, "Da, about mom. I don't know if you heard. She's...she's... The years have been hard on her since you left. She became so weak, and I couldn't contact you...She passed away four winters ago. Before she passed away, she wanted me to give you this."

Stef pulled the thong-and-ring from his neck and placed it in Jorj's hands. Jorj's face had always seemed as if it was chiseled from stone, but when the ring found his hands, it seemed the stony exterior cracked just a bit. His fingers closed around the ring, and his eyes seemed to fade. To his son, Jorj has always been a hard man, but for a brief moment, he seemed vulnerable. He whispered to himself, "Oh Eve. Eve. For love of Manetheren."

Jorj sighed, and looked back at his son. He seemed harder than before, if that was possible. A statue which had once been a man. "Thank you, Stef. Your company's moving on."

Stef Reimos clasped hands with his father. Jorj's hands were cold and hard, almost all tendon and bone, its warmth long leached away. Stef nodded soberly to his father. This was not the reunion he expected. But what did he expect? He swallowed the confusing rush of words that he wanted to say to his father, and stepped back into the line. Stef felt a tiny ache of pain inside, like an old battle wound, but crushed it underneath a wall not unlike his father's.

The wearied sergeant and T’Eldrene Company continued up the hill and pooled around the large tents of the HQ. The majestic Red Eagle danced in the wind alongside the Red Hand. Below them flew the Wolfhead of Aemon, the Boarhound of Cathon, and the Shield of the Covenant.

An assembly of men stood below the banners and waited patiently as the entire company had arrived. A tall man with gray-streaked hair watched the gathering company. His cloak was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly.

When all had arrived, he began to speak, "Welcome, T’Eldrene Company. I am the commander of the Band of Red Hand, Marshall-General Lawe Cathon.

"I do not know many of you, for I have left home over thirty years ago. But I do know that every one of you is a true son of Manetheren. You will hold back the black flood so that the Mountain Home will not drown, and you have made the terrible sacrifices. I thank you.

"Since Aemon has pledged the Band...scores of years ago, we have held back the flood, but as most know, we cannot hold them much longer. Many of you will sacrifice your lives, your dreams, your hopes, for nothing more than the love for your nation. For  _ humanity _ . Our greatest endeavor is nigh, an assault on the Bastion of Shadows itself. If we fail or we succeed, I do not know, and I cannot know. For I will not lie to you. You have pledged your lives and aspirations to this superhuman task, and that is all I will ask from you. All that I  _ need _ .

"For those who have recently joined, the Band of the Red Hand is the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, consisting of five Legions, and divided further into Banners, Companies, platoons, and squads. T’Eldrene Company will be moving in under the command of the 50th Light Infantry Banner under Major General Drogan Trystan within Glene Hill's Zephyr Hawk Legion. You will bivouac in the Third Encampment. General Trystan will provide you with additional information.

"May the Light shelter us in the Darkness to come. Only with the love of Manetheren will we survive. For Manetheren!" Cathon saluted.

"For Manetheren!" T’Eldrene Company shouted. The Caldazar and the Red Hand flew above the True and Last Sons of Manetheren.

. Actually, it was still insane, but not _as_ so. He rubbed his chin and adjusted his helmet. It was becoming increasingly hot and stifling, and sweat was already starting to form on his forehead.

"Drov, look at this for a moment." Arcanum called to the engineer riding by his side. Arcanum had taken a liking to the Major, especially to his skilled hand at siege engines. Borsy rode his horse closer and Arcanum showed him the designs. Arcanum pointed at a few points, "If we make a few changes here. And here. And scale this all down..."

Borsy pulled off his helm, wiped his face of sweat, and peered at the papers, "I believe that would work. On paper at least. And it certainly looks like an interesting machine. I'll get the boys working on these. Light, it's hot."

Arcanum handed the papers to Borsy, who went on to study the Storm Lord's new toy. Arcanum glanced at the surrounding and made a grimace. Trees and foliage had begun to appear. But he'd rather they had not. The trees seemed to be rotting while they grew, bloated and bleeding black liquids. Cancerous red and green growth splattered the leaves, and the overripe fruits looked as if they were going to explode at any moment.

"You know the latest on the war situation?" Arcanum asked.

"Yeah, the Corp handles most of the pigeons, so we're generally updated, though the last one we received was about two weeks ago. Jaramide partisans still running their hit-strikes with some effect. They're reporting heavy spawn activities there, but the Safari Phalanxes should handle any move southwards. Nonoc Bashere is trying to rebuild the Immortals. And Aridhol, well, its Containment still holds." Borsy ticked off his fingers, "We aren't exactly winning, but we aren't exactly losing either."

"Well, at least I'm reassured that we're not alone." Arcanum glanced at a bloated bush at the side of the room, and felt a morbid fascination to actually touch one. Smartly, Arcanum restrained that grotesque urge. But, a soldier a few paces in front of the general didn't seem to have as much sense, and actually reached out curiously towards a red-splotched shrub.

With a shriek the soldier leaped back, thrashing his arm.

"Get it off! Get IT OFF!" He slammed into another soldier and fell to the ground, still shrieking. Arcanum watched in growing horror as the soldier's hands began to blacken and dissolve before his eyes, slowly inching up his arms. The march came to a grinding halt.

Arcanum leaped off his horse and sprinted towards the soldier, but a ring of men was forming around the thrashing soldier. Everyone watched in stunned shock, but none knew what to do. Arcanum pushed his way through, grabbing a battleaxe from a soldier. He raised the axe and slammed it down upon the shrieking soldier's upper arm with a sickening noise.

The decapitated limb twitched and spasmed and continued to dissolve. Arcanum could now catch the sight of a tiny bloated insect attached to a blackened finger. A flash of fire hit the arm, as Arcanum shied away from the flaring heat and light. A dark-haired woman rushed to the downed man's side, and placed her hands upon his shuddering chest. As Arcanum watched on, the man's stump closed to smooth skin and his trembling slowly subsided.

She slowly stood up, her emerald eyes glancing down at the ashes by her feet. She straightened her yellow shawl, and coolly announced, "A Stick. This man is lucky to be alive. Their bite digests its prey from within while they still live. He will be fine for now. Perhaps you all should take a lesson. Touch nothing. No trees. No leaves. Nothing. In fact, just stay away from any of the foliage, as if it was not _common_ sense. There are worse things than the stick. A butcher bug spins a thread between trees so thin that the naked eye cannot detect it, and sharper than a steel blade. When a creature such as a _foolish_ man walks into it, they decapitate themselves. That is, if the tree itself doesn't kill him first."

Airene Sedai gave another firm look to the soldiers once more and glided away. A shadow detached from the crowd, trailing after her, his shimmering Warder cloak floating behind him, changing colors to match his surrounding.

Two soldiers kneeled besides their fallen comrade and helped pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and shook his head. He glanced at the stump of his right arm and shuddered, but shakily got back to his feet.

Arcanum glanced at the bloodied axe in his hand and tossed it to the ground. He gave a distasteful grimace, and rubbed at the blood stains on his shirt cuffs. _It was his favorite shirt too_. The soldiers gave a wary look at the tree that the unfortunate man had touched, and returned to their formations.

As Arcanum remounted, the Band began to creep forth again, giving a wide berth to any flora. When his horse passed the remains of the arm, Arcanum glanced down at the black ashes and looked up at the looming black daggerlike mountain in the distance.

"What are we getting into?" He muttered. Despite the dank heat, he shivered. The wind kicked up the ashes, scattering them.


	5. The Blasted Lands

Diest Arcanum studied the papers in his hands from atop his gelding. After scrutinizing a design for a trebuchet, he absent-mindedly reached up to his ear for a quill, but his hand bounced off his helmet. He glanced at his empty hand for a second and looked up from his study. The Band was on the move again, the line of soldiers stretching far ahead and back.

Arcanum's nose curled at a stench he had just noticed and glanced down at the ground. The snow was melting into a brownish-yellow mush that sickened the stomach. Dry hot breezes assaulted the army from the north, bringing smells of decay and rot. While Arcanum did not miss the snow at all, he wasn't looking forward to this new climate as they approached the Blasted Lands.

Arcanum shrugged and glanced back at his designs. He made a mental note for the trebuchet to be used for this fool’s errand on Shayol Ghul, and rifled through the papers until he found the sketch for the  _ Aclare _ . The assault on the Black Bastion didn't seem so insane when reduced to numbers and logistics. Actually, it was still insane, but not  _ as _ so. He rubbed his chin and adjusted his helmet. It was becoming increasingly hot and stifling, and sweat was already starting to form on his forehead.

"Drov, look at this for a moment." Arcanum called to the engineer riding by his side. Arcanum had taken a liking to the Major, especially to his skilled hand at siege engines. Borsy rode his horse closer and Arcanum showed him the designs. Arcanum pointed at a few points, "If we make a few changes here. And here. And scale this all down..."

Borsy pulled off his helm, wiped his face of sweat, and peered at the papers, "I believe that would work. On paper at least. And it certainly looks like an interesting machine. I'll get the boys working on these. Light, it's hot."

Arcanum handed the papers to Borsy, who went on to study the Storm Lord's new toy. Arcanum glanced at the surrounding and made a grimace. Trees and foliage had begun to appear. But he'd rather they had not. The trees seemed to be rotting while they grew, bloated and bleeding black liquids. Cancerous red and green growth splattered the leaves, and the overripe fruits looked as if they were going to explode at any moment.

"You know the latest on the war situation?" Arcanum asked.

"Yeah, the Corp handles most of the pigeons, so we're generally updated, though the last one we received was about two weeks ago. Jaramide partisans still running their hit-strikes with some effect. They're reporting heavy spawn activities there, but the Safari Phalanxes should handle any move southwards. Nonoc Bashere is trying to rebuild the Immortals. And Aridhol, well, its Containment still holds." Borsy ticked off his fingers, "We aren't exactly winning, but we aren't exactly losing either."

"Well, at least I'm reassured that we're not alone." Arcanum glanced at a bloated bush at the side of the room, and felt a morbid fascination to actually touch one. Smartly, Arcanum restrained that grotesque urge. But, a soldier a few paces in front of the general didn't seem to have as much sense, and actually reached out curiously towards a red-splotched shrub.

With a shriek the soldier leaped back, thrashing his arm.

"Get it off! Get IT OFF!" He slammed into another soldier and fell to the ground, still shrieking. Arcanum watched in growing horror as the soldier's hands began to blacken and dissolve before his eyes, slowly inching up his arms. The march came to a grinding halt.

Arcanum leaped off his horse and sprinted towards the soldier, but a ring of men was forming around the thrashing soldier. Everyone watched in stunned shock, but none knew what to do. Arcanum pushed his way through, grabbing a battleaxe from a soldier. He raised the axe and slammed it down upon the shrieking soldier's upper arm with a sickening noise.

The decapitated limb twitched and spasmed and continued to dissolve. Arcanum could now catch the sight of a tiny bloated insect attached to a blackened finger. A flash of fire hit the arm, as Arcanum shied away from the flaring heat and light. A dark-haired woman rushed to the downed man's side, and placed her hands upon his shuddering chest. As Arcanum watched on, the man's stump closed to smooth skin and his trembling slowly subsided.

She slowly stood up, her emerald eyes glancing down at the ashes by her feet. She straightened her yellow shawl, and coolly announced, "A Stick. This man is lucky to be alive. Their bite digests its prey from within while they still live. He will be fine for now. Perhaps you all should take a lesson. Touch nothing. No trees. No leaves. Nothing. In fact, just stay away from any of the foliage, as if it was not  _ common _ sense. There are worse things than the stick. A butcher bug spins a thread between trees so thin that the naked eye cannot detect it, and sharper than a steel blade. When a creature such as a  _ foolish  _ man walks into it, they decapitate themselves. That is, if the tree itself doesn't kill him first."

Airene Sedai gave another firm look to the soldiers once more and glided away. A shadow detached from the crowd, trailing after her, his shimmering Warder cloak floating behind him, changing colors to match his surrounding.

Two soldiers kneeled besides their fallen comrade and helped pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and shook his head. He glanced at the stump of his right arm and shuddered, but shakily got back to his feet.

Arcanum glanced at the bloodied axe in his hand and tossed it to the ground. He gave a distasteful grimace, and rubbed at the blood stains on his shirt cuffs.  _ It was his favorite shirt too _ . The soldiers gave a wary look at the tree that the unfortunate man had touched, and returned to their formations.

As Arcanum remounted, the Band began to creep forth again, giving a wide berth to any flora. When his horse passed the remains of the arm, Arcanum glanced down at the black ashes and looked up at the looming black daggerlike mountain in the distance.

"What are we getting into?" He muttered. Despite the dank heat, he shivered. The wind kicked up the ashes, scattering them.


	6. Getty's Canyon

Lawe Cathon rubbed the tarnished watchglass on his cloak and fitted it to his eye. He studied the land before him and grimaced. Even with the watchglass, all he could see was fractured ground as far as can be seen, spiderwebbed with league-wide crevasses and irregular crags. He removed the watchglass and unrolled a yellow-edged map from his saddlebag.

"Is there a way across?" Nathen asked. The Band of Red Hand had stopped at the lip of the lip of the giant mess of fissures, patiently waiting for a decision.

Lawe Cathon tugged at his beard thoughtfully, his fingers gliding across the rough paper, "These fissures go for leagues across. I wonder what happened here. It is as if a giant fist pounded the land into submission. That canyon in front of us appears to be the only feasible way across."

"Getty's Canyon."

Cathon glanced around to see Airene glancing over his shoulder. Her black-armored warder rode silently behind her. Since the pair had joined them when the Band had passed through Mafal Dadaranell a year past, Cathon had never seen the face of the gaidin, who kept his visage always shielded by his slitted visor. Cathon had never caught his name, and the warder had never offered it, and so Cathon just referred to him as The Warder. Warder apparently accepted that and would respond to it, with his echoing metallic voice that was hard to place.

"Yes, Getty's Canyon. You know it?" Cathon arched his eyebrow.

"The explorer Dravo Getty. Known in all circles as particularly cocky and rash. Being such, he decided to map the Blasted Lands one day. Not unexpectedly, he did not return. A van of Aramaellean scouts on patrol found a half-buried map accredited to Getty. This canyon was the last thing drawn, and well, the Aramaelleans named the canyon after him. His tomb if you will."

"One immense tomb." Nathen noted.

Cathon looked down at the map again, deep in thought. A large sinister spire of Shayol Ghul was inked on the map, a whim of the mapper most likely, as Cathon doubted anyone had ever been foolish enough to map it.

"General!" A soldier rode up at a trot, his hand holding a small square of paper.

"A pigeon?" Cathon wheeled his gelding around.

"Just flew in, sir." The soldier gave the sheet to the Marshall-General, and saluted. He nudged his horse and returned to his banner.

Cathon glanced down at the paper for a second and shivers ran up his spine.

"Light!" Cathon grimaced, "it's from Mafal Dadaranell. They're under attack. Some treachery. Spawns breached through outer and inner walls."

Airene snatched the message from Cathon, "But it would take a massive host to take down that city. I doubt if even one of your legions could overrun Mafal Keep. It's dated two weeks ago."

"They must have let loose all their pigeons with this message," Nathen said, "By your orders, general, we have stopped sending them our positions due to our assault. This is a desperate act. Only sheer luck let the pigeon find us."

"How far are we from Mafal Dadaranell?" Cathon asked.

"It would take us a month at the least. Hard march and all of our remaining resources." The adjutant replied truthfully.

"Then whatever has happened there has already happened. Let us hope they have found reinforcements in time." Cathon said grimly. He did not like it, but he was going to have to accept it. "We must forge on."

Cathon glanced at Airene, who was still staring at the message. Cathon knew that there were Aes Sedai in Mafal Dadarenell. But the Tower was no man's business, as Airene had lectured Cathon often enough. So he said nothing. But the time for hesitation was over.

"The Band marches. To be safe, separate legions in vans. Send some pickets out in front." Cathon said, nudging his horse forward. The order rippled through the ranks, and like a waking beast, the Band started to move. Every time, Cathon felt heady at having two hundred thousand men at his back and command. No one was immune to the allures of power. But still he knew that it might not be enough for their task ahead.

Cathon glanced at the ground as the Band descended down into Getty's Canyon. This path seemed to be the more level based on initial scout reports. It was a mild incline, but could still prove to be dangerous for a horse and his rider. His brown gelding half slid and half walked down the cracked slope into the canyon.

Cathon studied the chasm named after the doomed explorer. It was perhaps a league wide and five leagues long, with tall canyon walls whose height rivaled the Dhoroms itself, the western part casting a shadow across half the valley. He felt an itch at the back of his neck, and his eyes instinctively drew down to a red-gold container hanging at the side of his steed. But still, even that act did not reassure him, and he felt even tenser. He had been jumping at shadows since they started this quest, and he needed to hold his composure for the men. 

His horse seemed to be agitated as well,  _ whuffing _ and rolling his eyes. Cathon patted it reassuringly and wondered if it was too late to pick a different path. Cathon had now ridden almost to the midpoint of the Canyon, sinking into the shadows cast by the cliff walls. He glanced back and saw that the entire Band of Red Hand had entered Getty's canyon, bracketed between two unscalable walls.

A voice inside Cathon was yelling incoherently at him, telling him something was wrong. Cathon glanced up at the colossal walls, but saw nothing except heat waves. His gelding suddenly stopped, interrupting Cathon's scrutiny. Cathon glanced down and saw the horse's front hoof centered in the depression of a giant clawed footprint that he could have sworn was not there a few seconds prior.

“Perimeters, North and South! Now! Recall the scouts!" Cathon shouted, twisting his horse around.

"Shadowspawn." Airene spoke a split-second later, leashed tension in her normally serene voice.

The Band halted and immediately rippled outwards. A split-second later, monstrous heads appeared over the canyon walls, thousands upon thousands, looking down from all sides.

The air at the far end of the canyon rippled and countless Trollocs stuffed the exit. Cathon glanced back and saw another massive host coming in to block the south entrance.

"Impossible." Airene said. There was a flicker of alarm in her eyes. "They've got a Dreadlord. A skilled one. Perhaps more."

"Where's our scouts?" Nathen shouted.

"Most likely dead. Or wishing they were." Cathon grimaced and nudged his horses in towards the center of the perimeter, as soldiers raced past him. His eyes took in their situation and saw that it was a difficult one. No, an impossible one. They were trapped between two massive walls to the side and two hosts on either exit.

The Band could hold them off, but not for long.  _ Not for long. _

As Cathon shouted out his orders, his voice was silenced by the crackle of thunder. From the clear sky, lightning bolts slashed in along the ranks, and the Shadowspawns from both ends closed in upon the trapped Band.


	7. Rock and a Hard Place

The ground shook with the powerful hammering of the Trolloc wardrums, and debris cascaded down the canyon wall in sheets, kicking up veils of dust. Stef Reimos licked his lips, sword at ready. His squad was on the northern perimeter facing the spawns streaming into the canyon from that end. The river of shadowspawn did not seem to have an end, a black unstoppable torrent.

"It's a bloody stampede!" Tayren shouted, his sword poised beside Stef. Stef crouched for balance as the earth trembled and shook. He could now make out the blood-red eyes of the first line of Trollocs. Stef could smell sweat and heat pulsing from the spawns, and hunger of bloodlust.

Stef quashed the voice telling him to run. There was no way to run anyway. And no time as well-- the Trollocs smashed into their lines, their momentum carrying many of them through. Stef ignored them. Those were for the reserve line. His attention was focused on the five hundred Trollocs in front attempting to remove his head.

Stef threw himself aside as a goat-faced Trolloc bore down on him. The shadowspawn went past, his wicked blade whistling over Stef’s head. Stef rolled away, crouching up and forced his blade up the unprotected side of a different Trolloc. He immediately wrenched it out and ducked as the thrashing four-hundred pound Trolloc slammed into the earth. It was immediately trampled by the next two Trollocs leaping into the foray.

"FALL BACK!" Stef shouted. He ducked a heavy blow from an unseen Trolloc, and forced the beast back with a wild swing. "FALL BACK!"

The soldiers near him retreated while Stef and Tayren covered. Stef hacked off a massive hand that had gotten careless and ducked back. Cordin and another covered his retreat, their blades warding off assaults. The squad fell back orderly, half the soldiers covering for the other.

The Trollocs became careless, blinded by bloodlust. Stef recognized this, shouting off a quick order to attack. His squad surged forward, taking out five Trollocs within seconds before they were forced back once again. Through his peripheral vision, he saw other squads doing the same. That was the only way to fight creatures larger and stronger. A rigid line would break and splinter, but a fluid line allows the smaller, more agile humans to use their speed and flexibility to their best advantage.

Flights of arrows whistled above Stef’s heads and hit their targets by the sound of pained howls. All of them found targets in the massive sea of bodies, for it was impossible to miss, but did no visible damage. The sound of horns announced the arrival of a heavy cavalry squad. Stef took a quick glance back and moved aside for the solidly armored horsemen to gallop past. They slammed into the Trollocs lines, forcing them back for mere seconds. Then the flood of Trollocs swarmed them. The horsemen went under, and the perimeter was on the retreat again.

Stef glanced at the endless body of Trollocs and knew that there was no way to win. More and more Trollocs forced their way into the canyon, pushing those in front. There was no way for the spawns to retreat with thousands of their kin at their backs driving them forward with unyielding force.

"BACK!" Stef shouted at the top of his lungs. The perimeter started to break with the unrelenting pressure. Tiny rings of men began to appear, as Trollocs smashed through the lines, cutting up the perimeter. Stef was in such a ring, his squad crowded around, backs to each other.

A Trolloc slammed into a soldier besides Stef. The man brought his sword up and solidly impaled the beast, but still went down under the weight and continued momentum of the massive corpse. Stef swore and moved over to cover that hole in the circle. It was just a matter of time before the same happened to him.

A huge rock smashed down a meter from Stef, causing him to glance up. The Trollocs on top of the canyon walls were now hurling rocks and debris upon the battered Band. The height made accuracy difficult, but it created just another bloody thing to worry about.

"Fade!" A cry came up. Stef hamstrung a Trolloc and glanced up to see the black-cloaked figure of terror riding in the midst of the Trollocs. Its head turned toward Stef and it came, riding the waves of Trollocs, a silent assassin among the howling masses.

"You've got to be kidding me." Stef growled. His sword came up as the Halfman arrived. The eyeless horseman slashed out with inhuman speed and strength, sending Stef’s sword flying. Its unarmed limb slashed back, backhanding a soldier attempting to attack him from the side. The man went down. And stayed down. The Fade thrust forth once more, but Stef was already moving away. The gleaming sword still found the edge of the jerkin, and even that glancing blow upon the chainmail sent Stef slamming into the ground. Stef instinctively rolled, and the sword came down only on his cloak. The red fabric caught for a second, then tore, freeing Stef.

Stef looked up, momentarily stunned and saw a dark shadow loom over him. The Halfman's black stallion rearing up, its hooves poised to slam down into and through Stef.

A blur slammed into the shadow stallion's neck, and dark red blood exploded into the dazed sergeant's face, sobering him. He rolled away to a crouch, as the horse and Fade collapsed to the ground. Stef leapt back just in time to dodge a lunge from the black sword. The Fade began to rise from the corpse of his horse when a howling, warlusted Trolloc slammed into the Fade from behind. The Fade killed his own soldier immediately with one blow, but was crushed into the ground by the hooves of another. And another. And another. Bloodlust knew little difference between friend and foe.

Stef was already retreating when the Trolloc charging him howled in pain and crashed to the ground. Scores of other Trollocs collapsed as well, thrashing. Even with blood dripping into his eyes and his arms screaming in pain, Stef could barely stifle a grin at the irony. From their special link, the Trollocs were killed by the death of the Fade they trampled.

There was a brief respite with no Trollocs near him, to which Stef caught his breath. He could see the mangled and crushed bodies of the still-thrashing Fade and his horse alongside piles of Trollocs and occasional snatches of red cloak.

"At least the Dark One's luck doesn't apply to their bloody horses." A soldier remarked. Reimos glanced over, when a falling boulder took the speaker to the ground. The sergeant swore, and tried to pull the soldier to his feet, but gave up when he saw the broken neck. Instead, he picked up the man's sword, and brought it to position as the thousands of remaining Trollocs bridged the gap of corpses.

The company fell back in the face of sheer power. The ground filled with the bodies of the dead and wounded. The Trollocs rushed on, unrelenting. The floor of Getty's Tomb ran slick with blood.


	8. The Tightening Noose

Diest Arcanum dove for the floor as forks of lightning stabbed in among the catapults. Arcanum growled and pushed himself up, dusting his cloak. He surveyed the damage, counting two engines incapacitated but salvageable, and five men down and unsalvageable.

The crews not in the vicinity of the Dreadlord's fury continued to hammer at the Trollocs charging in from the south side. Those who had dived for safety quickly returned to their stations.

Crouching, Diest Arcanum peered through his watchglass, which now sported a crack on the viewer. He cursed the appalling position his Thunder Legion had to make do with. It was a small rising, a disgrace to the name of a hill. He cursed the rocks raining down upon him from above. And he especially cursed that  _ Light-forsaken _ Dreadlord.

Fuming, he finally found the Shadow General, unmistakable in a silk black coat, glittering with gold and silver stitching. He was near the very back of the Trolloc horde, staying safe while his troops threw themselves at the beleaguered Band. He waved his arms in the air, and a bright flash heralded a new bolt of lightning. But before this one could strike the beleaguered soldiers, it struck an invisible shield, careening off and crackling into a side of the canyon.

"The bloody Aes Sedai's finally doing something." Arcanum muttered to himself, then quickly glanced around to make sure she was not in hearing range. He looked back at the Dreadlord, who was preparing for another strike. Arcanum reckoned this one was not too terribly bright for a General of the Dark. If it was  _ him _ in the same position, Arcanum would have stationed himself on top of the canyon walls, where siege engines could not touch. Perhaps, the Dreadlord thought he was safe where he was. It was Arcanum's job to disabuse him of that notion.

"ALL CATS! ONE SLACK! FULL-RANGE! 12TH ROTATION!" Arcanum bellowed, "The first to take down that _bloody_ _twinklehands_ gets double rations!"

The cat crews near him moved to action quickly. The boulders (helpfully supplied by the Trollocs at the crest of the canyon) were loaded, the observers made adjustments to Arcanum's approximation, and the catapults fired. Within seconds of Arcanum's command, titanic missiles were soaring through the air.

"Channel this." The Storm Lord spat on the ground. He brought his watchglass up just in time to catch the Dreadlord's expression as the boulders descended on him. Arcanum could make out a look of surprise and the Dreadlord's hand rising as if to ward off the boulders. Arcanum frowned when the first boulder abruptly changed direction in mid-air like a pebble skipping over a pond, slamming into a knot of Trollocs nearby, but leaving the man intact. But even that did not save the man from the five other boulders slamming down onto him in quick succession.

Arcanum's look of satisfaction began to turn grim as he took a survey of the battle. The Band's perimeter was beginning to shatter and in fast retreat, as they were forced back by greater and greater numbers. Arcanum estimated that the Band was outnumbered three-to-one, and even Cathon's legendary luck (which Arcanum scoffed at) could not save them.

Suddenly tongues of flames flayed the top of the canyons, causing burnt out corpses to tumble down the sides, and the rest of the Trollocs perched there to withdraw. Without the need to protect the Band, the Aes Sedai was apparently going on the offensive. Though Arcanum was glad the bloody nuisances on the walls of the canyon were smote, he knew they were still only nuisances, and would not affect the course of the battle.

"Lieutenant General!" Nathen Austern, Cathon's adjutant, called from horseback, "Take your Legion out to safety, in any way you can. The Band is ordered to retreat!"

"We will do NO SUCH thing!" Arcanum boomed, "The Band does  _ not _ back down."

But Nathen had already galloped away, relaying the same order to the other generals.

"Cathon leads us on this suicide mission, and now retreats at the first sign of trouble?" Arcanum shouted, "Men, stay at your positions! THIS IS AN ORDER. Dignity in death! FOR MANETHEREN!"

Arcanum clenched his teeth when he glanced through the watchglass. Both perimeter lines were disintegrating. To a layman, it appeared the Band was dissolving into utter chaos, but Arcanum saw with grudging pride that the red-cloaked soldiers were breaking apart into squads. A huge movement of red in his peripheral drew his attention. Entire banners of cavalry had formed up, and were now smashing their way through the Trolloc ranks. Like a giant spear, they carved their way through bodies, regardless of their own losses, the infantry following in the wake.

The Band was breaking out, no matter the cost, and it looked like Arcanum's Legion would soon be the only soldiers remaining.

"Where are you going?" Arcanum growled at a soldier hitching up his catapult to its packhorses. The soldier looked up.  _ Blake _ , Arcanum recalled.

Captain Cydin Blake stood up, "Retreating,  _ sir _ . The Marshall-General has given us the order,  _ Lieutenant-General _ , sir!"

"If you will not man that cat,  _ Captain _ . I will do it. We will not take one step back." Arcanum stared down at Blake.

"Sir, we will not win this. Dying gloriously will not help Manetheren in any way." Blake returned the stare. With his side vision, Arcanum saw others beginning to hitch up their engines as well.

"THIS IS MUTINY."

"This is  _ common sense, sir _ !" Blake shouted back, "Look for yourself. Sir! This isn't just you; it's the men who serve under you who will die. When they do not need to. Sir!"

The general locked eyes with his captain for a few long seconds. Finally, Arcanum gritted his teeth but glanced around. The defensive perimeter was almost entirely gone, as more and more red cloaks broke through the Trolloc horde. Whatever one can say about Arcanum, he may be an arrogant bastard, but he was not a stupid bastard.

"Hitch it up after we break us a hole to the north!" Arcanum shouted and then looked back at Captain Blake, "As you were, captain. This is all on your head, soldier."

"Sir! Understood." Blake nodded and saluted, "If I may speak. The Naphtha. We won't be able to cart off all of it."

"Let the Lords of Flames feast." Arcanum nodded grudgingly, "Load up half, fire the others. We break through the north."

At Arcanum's orders, fire pits glowed as torches touched them, soaking up their flames. The clay barrels of Naphtha were efficiently loaded upon every catapult, and spun to face the north. The loaders smashed open the tops, and touched the torches to the frothing black liquid. The releases detached, and the cat-arms snapped forward.

A glittering sparkling rainbow seemed to arch through the smoke filled sky, as the catapults delivered their gifts.

To the north, the Band's charge seemed to have bogged down, with their foes recovering and standing their ground, flogged on by relentless Myrddraal. The Trolloc were on the verge of pushing the red-cloaked soldiers back, when the heavens showered burning fire upon the ranks of the Horde. Whatever the Hand of the Storm Lord touched burst into unquenchable flames, spreading like a plague. The ranks of shadowspawn dissolved into utter chaos, terror completely replacing fury. Fire is one of two things known to subdue bloodlust, the second, death.

The Band's rush renewed, hacking their way towards the safety of the northern edge.

Arcanum's Thunder Legion began to move as well. Packhorses and soldiers strained and dragged the fleet of engines northward towards safety.

"Sir, we don't have enough horses." Blake called out.

"Where in bloody..." Arcanum's eyes caught the crushed bodies of the steeds buried under boulders thrown from above. Then the general glanced southward and cursed again.

"We've lost the entire south!" Arcanum swore. He could only see snatches of lone defenders as the Horde smashed over them. The Field HQ collapsed to the weight of the shadowspawn, and the banners burned and fell. This was not good news.

"We must leave these." Blake shouted.

"They're not getting my bloody cats." Arcanum glanced at the engines to which Blake was referring.

"But sir..."

Arcanum grabbed a Naphtha barrel from the last wagon, and kicked it over to the stranded catapults. He drew his blade, smashed open the barrel with the hilt, and kicked it over. The pool of black naphtha spread, spilling over all of the siege engines. Arcanum saw that one of the engines was  _ Aclare _ .  _ A bloody shame.  _

Arcanum grabbed the last remaining torch from the nearest fire pit and tossed it into the pool of combustibles. He shielded his eyes from the roaring flame, and gave the burning heap a salute.  _ A fitting pyre for my finest soldiers. _

Arcanum and Blake left the blaze behind, helping to push the fleeing catapults along. The Trollocs who had overrun the southern perimeter approached, but was warded off by the rear guard. Many of the spawns broke away from their attack to loot the supply wagons left behind.

Ahead, the Band of Red Hand broke through, Thunder Legion trailing behind. The disordered Trollocs regrouped fast and snapped at the back of the retreating army, which at the moment unfortunately consisted of Arcanum's legion. Though the Band had suffered a heavy loss, they fought in an organized retreat away from the canyon, discouraging pursuit with a heavy hand and a heavy blade.

Arcanum sighed, walking besides his remaining fleet, his horse lying somewhere in Getty's Canyon with a broken neck. He knew what he would say to Cathon when he met him next.

A horseman came galloping back towards Arcanum, who recognized the lean bony rider as General Stren "Bastion" Vader.

"Ho, Diest, is this all?" Lieutenant Vader asked as he neared.

"More or less, we had to abandon some engines. I need to speak with Cathon."

"So does everyone. But we can't. He was at Field HQ."

"HQ got overrun, Bastion. South perimeter went under." Arcanum said.

"Then, Diest, you and I. We are the only generals left. We've lost more than half the Band, and we've got no commander, and we've got nowhere to go..." Vader spoke softly. He glanced up at the peak of Shayol Ghul, and sighed, "We've got a reserve horse if you need it. We're in for a long journey."

The survivors of the Band of Red Hand headed westward, leaving the disorganized pursuit behind.


	9. Broken Legion

A few leagues away, Lawe Cathon winced as Airene dabbed at his chest wound with a moist cloth. He tried to push himself up, but the Aes Sedai firmly kept an iron grip on his shoulder.

Cathon gave up and laid back, as she began to dress his wounds. Airene had dark circles around her eyes, and her dark curls hung down in limp strands. The general knew she was completely exhausted if she had to rely on old-fashioned healing.

The details of the previous day swam in his mind. The call to retreat. Airene's lashes of fire beating back the shadowspawn, and his men swarming desperately through the southern gap. Cathon hoped those at the northern end had made it out as well, but the last scene he saw as he broke free was the Horde swarming into the hole the Band had blasted through. A glancing blow to his chest had dropped him, but Nathen had dragged him out. They had to leave anything they could not carry, the tents, the supplies, everything.

Cathon sighed, "All my fault. My entire bloody fault. I should've known it was a trap. I could feel it."

"I should've felt the shadowspawn." Airene noted, "If I was not preoccupied with my own problems. But that much Trollocs so near should have raised my alarm. The Dreadlord had done something. Something the Tower knows not."

"It was my decision, and now, ah." Cathon grimaced as she applied a stinging poultice to a deep laceration, "You should get some rest, Airene. I'll survive."

"I'm tougher than you think,  _ Lawe _ ." Airene bound his wounds and stood up, "there are more injured to see. Sit and let these mend. Do not waste the work I just spent on you."

"I need to see my men." Cathon struggled to his feet.

"Do what you will then. It is your life." Airene walked away, her voice like a cold dagger. He watched her glide away like an elegant storm cloud.  _ What did he do? _

Cathon swept back the damp hair from his eyes, and gazed around the camp. With all the tents lost in the valley, the men had bivouacked on the bare ground.

Fortunately, the weather had since made tents obsolete.  _ One of the few and only advantages of the Blasted Lands. _ The sun had set, but the earth was still searing hot. Darkness, unrelieved except for a waning moon, set over the camp, reducing soldiers and horses to black shadows.

"I'm glad to see you're up, Marshall-General." Major-General Diadrem's voice drew Cathon's attention.

"Where are the others." Cathon glancing to see only General Notar with Diadrem.

"Generals Vader, Hill, and Arcanum have all been missing since Getty's Canyon, sir. They were all positioned at the north." Nathen Austern walked up. The two remaining generals nodded grimly.

"Bloody..." Cathon massaged his temples, "What's the situation."

"We have the majority of Black Moon and True Blade. We have half of Hill's Zephyr Hawk and some of Vader's First Legion." Austern said.

"I have taken the survivors of Zephyr and First into True Blade." Diadrem added.

"At the current count, we have a little more than a hundred thousand men left. Roughly half of what we started. Two thousand injured, but thankfully, with the healers and Airene Sedai, the majority will survive. The rest, about eighty thousand men, including the three Generals, are presumed to be casualties."

"No, they survived." Cathon grabbed a rumpled white shirt from the ground and drew it over his body. He glanced up to dubious looks.

"They survived. They must have broken through the north side. They are good men, skilled in survival." Cathon picked up his battered cloak and hung it around his shoulders, "We march for Shayol Ghul again."

"Cathon, is this wise?" Notar asked doubtfully.

"We've suffered a grievous wound today, I do not deny this. But we will heal, and we will strike back. The Shadow thinks it has won. We will teach them differently. And if the other half of the Band still survives, which I believe with all my heart, they will continue the attack. That is the best hope for reunion."

"Sir..." Diadrem began.

"It is your right to advise." Cathon cut him off, "You have advised me. But I have made my decision. We will continue our attack on the Black Bastion once more."

"I understand, general." Diadrem replied, "And the Creator willing, you are right."

"Nathen, what is it you need?" Cathon asked his adjutant.

"Scouts report a fist of Trollocs approaching from the north. Nothing serious, perhaps a hundred. A splinter group from yesterday most likely, eager for loot and blood."

"Notar, lead a banner of your best cavalry. Wipe those raiders out.  _ All _ of them. Bring their heads back on pikes; we need a morale boost." Cathon glanced up at the black sky and the blacker spire of Shayol Ghul, "We ride tomorrow morning. Send what remains of our scouts out to find a path."

"Sir." The two generals saluted and walked into the night.

"What is the account on supplies, Nathen?" Cathon asked, glancing up at the cloudless sky.

"We managed to pull out a third of our supply wagons. The rations will be thin, and we only have enough fuel for firepits at the siege. No campfires, but in this weather, we'd only need it for perimeter lighting. We might survive with what we have. We might not. Sir, are you sure this plan of yours is still prudent?"

"We can only hope so, Nathen. We can only hope so." Cathon laughed dryly, "Go give me the final breakdown so we can plan."

The adjutant saluted and followed quickly in the steps of the two departing Generals. As Cathon watched them fade into the night, he felt his crafted facade finally cracking. The repressed trembles in his hands came unbidden like rigors before he could still his nerves once more. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his trousers and forced measured breaths until the vice around his chest began to calm. 

As he put on his facade of confidence once more, he was grateful that no one was there to witness his brief moment of vulnerability. But as he glanced up at the star filled sky, he felt a familiar presence stepping next to him. 

Airene Sedai raised her face to the skies, as if pretending her presence was a mere coincidence for stargazing. Her features so severe in the daytime seemed now so soft under the starlight, the pale skin of her cheeks almost with a subtle cool glow,

They stood in silence for a heavy moment before Airene spoke. “The Wild Skies that can be only seen in the Blasted Lands. Unpredictable and untethered to any astronomer or star map. A beautiful chaos. To navigate by the Wild Skies is to invite trouble.”

Cathon nodded. He expected another lecture on his self care like before, but instead her tone was uncharacteristically soft and conversational. He wondered how long she had been watching him or how much she saw.

“I am merely searching, Lady Airene. For a sign.” 

She turned to him, studying him with her penetrating green eyes. “I did not picture you to be a superstitious man, General.”

“One does not need to be superstitious to look for hope in a time of crisis. There is always hope. One cannot find answers if one does not look for them.” 

“It is my experience that those who follow signs use them to confirm what they already intend to do. And sometimes the signs are not what they hope. When Prince Caar fell in love with his sign, he paid with his death.”

Cathon turned to face the Aes Sedai and met her thoughtful gaze. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the rippling movement of Warder’s invisible cloak ten feet away standing guard. But for all purposes, the two were alone in the cloak of night’s darkness. 

“Caar One-Hand may have died chasing his signs, but he still found love, a precious treasure that many have searched their entire life without finding. Maybe he was not as foolish after all.” Cathon replied. “I know Aes Sedai can make their own miracles, so you may not understand. But for us ordinary men scratching out our fleeting lives, sometimes we need to believe that there is a higher force of purpose or good. Whether it’s the Creator Himself or Caldazar or Lady Luck, I would take anything and anyone at this desperate time.”

“Well you have me. But I am a little light on miracles.” She gave him a rare smile, gentle and human. Her eyes softened as she finally broke off her stare. And for a brief second, she seemed not like the mysterious Aes Sedai figure of legends, but a fellow traveler on a long lonely road. “I hope you find what you are looking for, general.”

“Do get some rest.” She touched him on the shoulder with a light hand, an intimate gesture of her compassion, and left him once more to his eternal search.

In the distance, Notar's cavalry raid galloped away, a single torch among them, from the pitch black camp into the pitch black night.


	10. Respite

Sergeant Stef Reimos forded through the chest-deep waters, his wet cloak dragging behind. When the fleeing Band remnant had come upon this fast flowing river, Stef had been stunned to see this clear, flowing tributary in the heart of the Blasted Lands. But, the Red Hands quickly accepted this at face value, as a barrier to hold off any pursuit. Whoever the hell was in charge had decided they should cross, but personally, Stef didn't believe a couple spans of water would slow down the Horde they were fleeing. And speaking of which…

"Who in the bloody ashes is in charge, Tayren?" Stef asked. “This must be what a headless chicken feels like.”

"How should I know? It's either Vader or Arcanum. Maybe one of the Luty Generals will try to take over. And they're welcome to it." Tayren grunted.

Stef glanced down at the fast-flowing water churning around his torso. It looked cool and clear, an anomaly in the core of the Black Lands. His throat was parched from the long march, and he was tired of the flat water they've been receiving as ration, which was not a lot. He cupped some water in his hands and raised them towards his face. But he immediately halted as the once clear water in his hands turned completely black. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and shook his hands free of the inky fluid.

"It's a bloody illusion." Stef grimaced. He felt more comforted as he finally stumbled onto dry land, out of the water-that-was-not-water. Stef tugged his cloak off, and twisted the soaked cloak free of the water. The falling water droplets turned black in mid-air, oozing down into the soil.

He draped his cloak over one shoulder, and glanced to find the rather soggy Zephyr Hawk Banner of his legion hanging limply upon its pole. He motioned his squad after him, and set off towards a viable camp spot. Satisfied at a dry sandy area, he grunted a command, and stripped himself of his wet clothes, unable to abide having the foul water tainting his skin.

He removed all his clothes except his trousers and laid them on the ground to dry. At least he hoped they would dry. He looked around to see most of the soldiers doing the same, with most of the veterans lying down to catch some sleep. He saw that young Cordin was carefully cleaning his sword with a handful of sand, and walked over to the tyro.

"Lo, soldier."

"Sergeant." Cordin carefully laid his sword down, and stood up to attention. He looked like a child. But, he must at least be twelve, the minimum age for enlisting. 

"You did well back there, as well as a raw could. How much swordship training did you get when you started?"

"Just the basics, sir!"

"Don’t call me sir. Well, I have some time on my hand. Hell, the generals still haven't even made up their mind on who's in charge. Let me see what you can do." Stef wielded his sword in a loose grip in his left hand. “I’m a southie, but don’t hold that against me.”

Cordin licked his lips and grabbed his blade as well. Stef gave a couple of casual thrusts, which the tyro blocked to a sufficient extent.

"Now, soldier, not bad. But you're fighting a man, and a man is a world's difference from a spawn. I'm sure you've had experience with that already." Stef snapped his sword forth, which was barely parried.

"Trollocs, as you've seen, are rather large, moody creatures. They're unnaturally strong, and can smash your skull open with a bare fist. They can outrun a horse, and have hides that can deflect steel. If you want to live, you stay fast and stay agile, stay on your toes. Unless you want to be hacking away all day, target three areas. The throat's unprotected and a quick kill but the hardest to hit because of the height. The second is through the armpits. The third is their legs.

"You can attack their chest or belly if you wish, but make sure your blade is angled between the ribs and to one side. But, that tends to be the most well protected." Stef begins to rotate his sword casually.

"Watch out for their bloody strength. You try blocking their blows the way you're doing to me? Well, comparing the muscles in your wrist to, say, the shoulders of a Trolloc. Like blocking a blacksmith hammer with a hard-boiled egg." With all his strength, Stef spun, and slammed his sword down on Cordin's. The tyro's blade bounced off the ground and skipped through the air, digging a trench into the sand where it landed. Cordin flinched, rubbing at his wrist.

"Angle your sword enough so their blows are deflected away from you. Use their brute strength against them. Like that Order of Black Moon; those crazy empty-hand warriors in Aegar. Though, give me a sword any day." Stef kicked up Cordin's sword and tossed it back to him, "But dodge whenever possible. Avoid it. Even a glancing blow can snap your arm."

Stef slammed his sword down again, but Cordin parried it aside correctly. The kid seemed to have gotten over-enthusiastic, thinking he could give his tutor a move of his own, snapping forward with Stef still overextended. Stef twisted his body, bringing his hilt around to send Cordin's sword flying again.

"Cute…" Stef grinned, "And remember to keep a better grip on your weapon. Well, I'm going to get some shut-eye. You're showing improvement."

"Thank you, sir." Cordin retrieved his sword and started to wipe the blade with his red cloak.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stef exploded.

"Sir?" The young man seemed confused.

"Never use your  _ cloak _ to wipe your sword. Hell, tear it up to bandage someone's wounds, to save a life. But that cloak is the symbol of what you are here for. You get one bloody cloak, and you better treat it with bloody respect. Being a soldier is two equal parts, the Way and the Means. Your hands are the Means and your cloak is your Way. Without your Way, you become nothing but a brute with a sword.“ Stef slowed to catch his breath, and then spoke softly, "You want to keep your sanity, son. That's Manetheren you're carrying on your shoulder and back. That's bloody Manetheren. Your Way."

Stef turned and left without another word, his sword trailing in one hand.


	11. Final Measures

Diest Arcanum met eyes with the remainder of the Legion and Banner generals gathered around: Trystan, Warsal, Blane Cathon, and Courwin. Less than half of the officers that the Band had begun with. A single torch stabbed into the earth within the circle of men, casting flickers on their dour faces.

"Who is to lead now that the Marshall-General is lost?" Major General Vike Warsal of the 37th Banner asked bluntly.

"Lieutenant General Stren Vader will be taking command of the entire Band. I accede to seniority." Arcanum nodded to the older man.

"Thank you, Diest." Vader cleared his throat, "Due to the massive loss at Getty's...Trystan will be raised to Lieutenant General, taking over Zephyr Hawk Legion from Hill, presumed dead. His 50th Banner will be joined with Warsal's 37th. Stragglers from other banners will be temporarily formed up as a company under Blane Cathon."

The cousin to the late Marshall-General nodded to his new assignment, and the rest of the major generals acquiesced to the new positions. Vader continued, "The latest scout report states that the body of Shadowspawn from Getty's Canyon is in our pursuit, some leagues away. They have organized themselves and will arrive, at best estimate, in the morning.

"That will give us somewhat of an advantage. As we all know, Trollocs will have difficulty seeing with the dawning sun in their vision. Although the sun will be in our faces more, our eyes will adapt easier. Furthermore, we have placed that...river...between us, but it seems that we are bracketed in the back by steep cliffs. And there's no Getty's Canyon this time for us to cross. The only way in- and out- is crossing that river. We will make our stand here. After all, we have nowhere to run. General Arcanum will provide you with the battle details."

Arcanum cleared his throat. "Zephyr Hawk Legion will form their infantry lines along the river, with the First Legion in reserve. My Thunder Legion will be providing the support with our cats. We will have field works at the edge of the river, and in the river itself. We will be outnumbered; even worse than Getty's Canyon. But we will be prepared," Arcanum added grimly.

"Have your men split into shifts on construction of the fieldworks. Normal communications cipher. Dismissed for now. Return in an hour for battle orders." The new Marshall-General Vader ended the meeting. The lower generals melted into the night, leaving Vader, Arcanum, and Trystan behind.

"Major, any suggestions?" Arcanum asked a shadow entering the sphere of light, revealing himself as Drov Borsy.

"E-Corps supplies are at an extreme low." Borsy addressed the three generals, "Our entire arsenal consists of a few wagons of caltrops. We will be able to facilitate the construction of the fieldworks, the spike wall, at least a crude version. We have some naph and brew as well."

"I have some carts full left." Arcanum said, "Mostly Witch's Brew, but some Naphtha as well. Might as well use them here. They'll be no retreating this time."

"Perhaps. The Engineer Corps still has some cards up our sleeves, as the late Cathon used to say. Something we can create rather quickly. Just need to cannibalize some supply wagons, proofing caulk, and lots of naph." Borsy winked.

"Good. Update me on your results." Vader grunted.

"Oh, and we have sieved the water from that river." Borsy unplugged a water skin and poured some liquid out onto a pan. In the flickering torchlight, Arcanum could see the filmy water swirling, and he blanched at the smell emanating from it.

"We did our best to make it edible, short of distilling it." Borsy emptied his skin and capped it, "It tastes like dung, smells like dung. But it isn't dung. Though, you can't take my word on it."

"Dismissed, major." Vader said, tipping the pan over with a foot, spilling the water into the ground. Borsy gave a quick salute and left.

As the generals returned, Vader spread a large map on the ground, hastily surveyed by Borsy's Engineers Corps, and they began to plot the strategies of their defense. As the commanders brooded over the plan, Arcanum couldn't help but remember that no strategy survives contact with the enemy. But better to fill their mindspace with strategy rather than dread the approaching execution. As the generals deliberated over the map, messengers came and went, delivering progress reports and orders, flitting to and forth like moths to a flame.

Sometime later, Arcanum rubbed his eyes tiredly, and excused himself for a breather. He walked into the night to rest his mind and personally see the preparation. He had often felt useless with numbers and such (unless it pertained to his precious machines), and would rather physically interact with his men.

With all fuel in short supply, the camp was drenched in darkness, and Arcanum felt a shield of anonymity surrounding every shadowy figure in the camp, including himself. As he walked through the encampment, men who would avoid the general in the daylight would start up conversations with Arcanum, who found it rather refreshing.

In rotation, half the soldiers were asleep, the other working feverishly away. When Arcanum arrived near the river, he could already see the skeleton of the fieldworks stabbing forth from the soil. Arcanum could count around five rows of fieldworks, each a wall of spikes jutting out of the ground at an angle towards the river.  _ Four reserve fieldworks, _ Arcanum noted to himself,  _ for when the first wall fall. _

Arcanum weaved his way through the narrow opening of the fieldworks, arriving at the waterfront. He could make out large, dark shapes bobbing far out on the river, which startled him at first.

"What are those things?" Arcanum pointed out those floating figures to a faceless soldier working nearby. The man seemed to peer up at the general's face, but apparently did recognize him.

"Some toys the specs cobbled up. Hulks of wagons, waterproofed and caulked." The soldier returned to his work.

Arcanum digested the man's statement slowly, remembered Borsy's earlier plan, and wished that he had learned more of the details. He studied the floating wagons for a time, but unable to see them clearly, he walked on. He came upon an engineer working a miniature catapult, firing caltrops into the river. When those sharp-headed steel traps landed in the river, they sunk to the bottom to lie in wait for the foot of a Trolloc. By now, the entire riverbed should be almost entirely blanketed by a coat of sharp spikes. Seeing the man work the mini-catapult, the Thunder Lord immediately asserted his birthright to all ballistic machines, and began to correct the man's inefficient aim, much to the engineer's annoyance. Finally, the man ran out of caltrops, and scurried away quickly, leaving the trop-flinger behind in his haste to get away.

Arcanum studied the far shore, lost in thought. The darkness was a cloak of protection, for the dawn would herald the arrival of the Shadowspawn horde that had destroyed more than half of the soldiers of the Light. He glanced to the east, and saw the faint pink haze of an approaching day. He could almost hear the heavy footsteps of the Trolloc Horde approach.


	12. Flight of the Red Eagle

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon rode quietly at the head of the other half of the Band, which mimicked their leader's hushed conduct. For all eyes drew up northwards towards the spire of Shayol Ghul, a destination many believed to be final and fatal. The Band of Red Hand crawled forth silently like a stalking jungle-cat, creeping upon its larger foe, claws and teeth bared to strike. It was also a silent mourning for those souls believed lost in Getty's Canyon, but who, unbeknownst to the general, were actually now preparing their desperate defenses.

Cathon felt the outline of his bandages covered by his shirt, and studied the lay of the land spread before him. Brooding, he glanced around, his dark eyes sweeping the land. Much of the Blasted Lands were shrouded in darkness, and shadows stretched across the ground from the pale light of the rising sun. Something seemed to draw his attention. He blinked as if he could not believe his eyes, and stilled his pounding heart.

"Nathen." Cathon suddenly broke the brittle quiet, "Do you know the story of the founding of Manetheren."

"I do not believe so, sir." The adjutant replied, arching his eyebrow.

"It is a story truly all of the blood should know. The world was shattered by the Breaking, as you know. Then came two brothers, carved from stone by lightning, and life breathed into them by the Eternal Wheel. Don't roll your eyes at me, Nathen. They were raised by a wolf bitch, and grew up running with their wolfbrothers."

"Are you sure they weren't Lichs, sir? Or the Queens of the White Faeries?"

"Hush. They were named Safii and Jaralus, or it is said, who around a band of men and women was formed, a covenant, if you will, against the rising chaos. Sort of like us. Our precursors, if you will."

"So am I Safii or Jaralus?" Nathen interjected.

"And the two brothers led their people into our land, a land finally at peace from the destruction of the Breaking, and they came to a place of seven hills. And an eagle, Caldazar, flew overhead, and the brothers knew the sign in their hearts.

"They made sacrifices to that raptor. Safii burnt his people's grain and fruits, offering stability and strength to Caldazar. Jaralus slew a great hart, whose majestic antlers bore all the colors of a rainbow, and laid the heart and entrails before him. The red eagle alighted before Jaralus, and accepted the man's gift of flesh and blood.

"Jerii, incensed by Caldazar's rejection, scorned Caldazar and his brother, and left westward. Some of the first people went with him, crossing the mountains to the west, dissolving into the barbaric bands soon to be Safer. Jaralus stayed and where Caldazar landed, built his City Upon The Hills, but known as Jara'copan, City of Jaralus, where it reigned as the capital of the Manetheren Empire for three hundred years before moving into the Mountain Home." Cathon finished his tale, and glanced to see Nathen Austern's reaction.

"That is an utterly  _ fascinating _ tale. Foundation-myth I think it's called. What brought up this mythical side, Lord General?"

"Caldazar flies with us once again." Cathon laughed deeply and gestured to the side. Nathen turned his head to see a red eagle perched upon a boulder, its intense eyes meeting the adjutant's gaze. It swept its immense scarlet wings back, and soared into the red-hued sky, circling above the Band. Cries and shouts came from the ranks, as men began to notice the fierce but undeniably noble creature above. When all the heads had turned upwards, the eagle gave a shriek, and glided westward. A second red eagle joined its kin, weaving through the air, westward.

Cathon turned to look for Airene to gloat, but she was nowhere to be seen. But this did not dampen his enthusiasm. 

"It is a sign. We go west!" Cathon called, "This tide has turned on this full sea. The Band will be united once more."

Life began to infuse the Band of Red Hand, the patched and tattered banner of Caldazar was held forth with new zeal. The red jungle cat changed directions, stalking westwards after Caldazar, hope rekindled.


	13. Primal Fight

As the hours drew on, Stef Reimos strained to control his impatience. The Horde had arrived with the dawn, dark bodies covering the far shore, until nothing could be seen in the distance but the blackness of the gathering shadowspawn. But they had not attacked yet, seemingly satisfied with waiting for all their numbers to gather, against the trapped Band. Stef had a clear view of the gathering storm, as Hill's replacement, Drogan Trystan, seemed to follow the same philosophy of placing Stef in the line of fire. Stef’s squad was positioned at a section of the first fieldworks, lined up behind the jagged wall. The sharp fieldworks designed to keep the Trollocs at bay and Stef safe did not please the disgruntled sergeant at all. Of all the works he had worked behind, this had to be the shoddiest piece of sheep fodder...light, even a soft wind could probably blow the entire thing over. Half of it was scavenged wagon parts hastily sharpened to points; the other was some honed local sapling, which had to be burned to curtail their homicidal tendencies.

"Light, I wished we had some Saferi phalanxes with us right about now, barbarians though they be." Stef grunted wistfully, "Our swords are too short for this kind of work. But as long as I'm wishing, I'd rather have all of the Saferi here, and me in Safer, with a mug of mulled ale and a fire." Glancing forward at the scorching sun, Stef amended, "Or at least chilled wine in the shade of a tree that won't attempt to eat me."

"Yeah? That makes it two of us," Tayren wiped the sweat from his head, "What are the bloody spawns waiting for. They expect us to drop our weapons and surrender?"

Stef spat on the ground, "You see any dreadlords? This can prove rather painful without the Sedai."

"Can't see any. There might be some staying in the back."

"Rations!" A soldier interrupted the conversation, tossing tacks to the stationed men. Stef caught his hardtack with a grimy hand, and attempted, but failed, to break it in half.

"They should use these rations for the fieldworks. Well, so much for last meals. So much the pity." Tayren groused and kicked a strut in front of him. It made an uninspiring creaking noise, but held together.

"Tayren, you break that bloody thing, we're nailing you in as replacement. I spent half the light-forsaken night hammering it in." Stef threatened him with his hardtack, when a shudder ran through the earth.

Stef turned his head to the river, to see the overwhelming sight of the Trolloc lines plowing into the water, driving towards the Band. Stef knew that although the Horde started slowly, like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside, it would soon become an unstoppable force.

Stef flexed his sword hand, and waited for the boulder to hit. Thousands and thousands of shaggy Trollocs poured into the river. Scores began to drop, plummeting into the frothy water. The caltrops placed by the specs were doing their jobs with a vengeance. But though many shadowspawns fell splashing, and a faint red sheen appeared on the water surface, the Horde did not abate. Those who fell were trampled and drowned, but there were dozens for every one that fell. They pushed past the bobbing wagon hulks at the midpoint, and came within bow range.

Arrows took flight over Stef’s head, stabbing into the river and the Trollocs like a vengeful rain. The Shadowspawn was enclosed by a ceiling of arrows and a floor of spikes, but continued to plow through the river.

"GET READY!" Stef bellowed, "It's our bloody turn!"

The sergeant stepped forth to the fieldwork braces as the first wave of frothing shadowspawn stepped upon shore, greeted by the wall of spikes. Stef stabbed forth into the chest of a climbing Trolloc, who fell back with a death howl. Stef moved quickly to strike down a second clambering Trolloc, and a third, a forth. Waves and waves of shadowspawn were beaching now, attacking the fieldworks with almost suicidal determination. The front line of the Band strived to keep the Trollocs from ascending the surprisingly resilient fieldwork.

However with waves of Trollocs slamming into the wall, parts of the support began to crumble, and shadowspawn began to break through. Stef thrust up into a Trolloc who had almost managed to scale the works, pushing the corpse back over. However, this gave time for two Shadowspawn to climb over, their torsos scored with red from the spikes, but still healthy enough to put the soldier on the defensive.

Warding off the blows, Stef heard the signal he was waiting for, the beating of swords against shields, echoing down the lines, as more soldiers took it up. Stef gave a cursory tap with his sword while backing away from the fieldworks and shouted, "MOVE BACK!"

Other officers had also taken up the call, and the entire infantry line shifted away from the fieldwork. Only a bright flare and a loud crackling noise signaled the sudden arrival of the fire chewing through the fieldworks. Flammable Naphtha rested in a shallow pit dug beneath the fieldworks and also soaked the wood of the supports. With the front line about to break, the designated soldiers had thrown burning torches into the wall, causing flames to race down the naph-soaked fieldworks.

Swarms of Trollocs had begun scaling the fieldworks without the humans warding them off, when their beady eyes caught sight of the approaching inferno. The shadowspawn attempted to leap back from their perches, but were stopped by the press of their fellow Trollocs behind. The fire tore through the fieldworks, burning hotly from the naph, chewing through wood and flesh alike. Howls of pain infused the air, and a blackened mass fell off the burning wall in front of Stef.

A wall of fire now separated the bulk of the Horde and the Band of Red Hand, buying them valuable time. Stef’s squad quickly finished up the remnants of the Trollocs' advance wave, and retreated back towards the second fieldwork. Keeping together, they streamed through the narrow openings and took up a new position at the second work.

"We got over-run too bloody fast." Stef cursed, "We only got four left."

"We're dead otherwise." A soldier growled.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not rolling over for a spawn." Stef snapped. The fire of the first fieldwork began to die down, and Trollocs began to swarm through again, pounding against the next layer of fieldworks.

The Band of Red Hand soon found themselves at the last fieldwork, the black ashes of the first four fieldworks a testament to the day's trials. Though at each wall, they had slain thousands of shadowspawn, the Horde kept throwing itself at the besieged humans.

"We need a bloody miracle to get us out of this mess." Stef muttered to himself as he fought to dislodge a Trolloc from the work, "What the bloody hell is Vader waiting for?"

As Stef ducked below the reach of a climbing Trolloc, he heard a distant bugle. Not from behind him, but faintly in front of him. The horn came again, its clarity pointing to a human origin.

Then a raptor flew over the fraught Band, a bird of magnificence and grace, a red eagle. The sigil of their home lent Stef strength once more, his tired spirit propped up. He heard himself shouting, " _ Carai an Caldazar! _ ", and attacking forward with a fury that surprised even him.

Stabbing in through the mist that veiled his mind was the distant horn, growing in intensity and volume, its origin growing closer and closer. The men around Stef had taken up the cries, their swords clearing shadowspawn from the wall.

A Trolloc in front of Stef fell headless from the fieldwork, giving the soldier a view of the river and distant coast. Past the waterway, the Horde had begun to mill in chaos, as a host of humans tore into them from the other side. A host of red-cloaked soldiers bearing the standard of the Caldazar and Red Hand.


	14. The Burning Rivers

Diest Arcanum shouted above the din of battle, "THEY'RE BREAKING. TARGET THE FADES!"

Missiles arched through the air, slamming down among the Trolloc ranks. The leading Fades' luck could not overcome the sheer number of boulders slamming down from above. The rapid death of many of the Horde's leaders threw the shadowspawn ranks into further confusion. The Band's infantry lines switched quickly to offensive, cutting away at the retreating Trollocs. Across the river, the other half of the Band was slicing through the Horde flanks, forcing the panicking shadowspawn towards the river. The arrival of the presumed dead soldiers had momentarily stunned both sides, but the Band had recovered quickly.

Lightning scored from the heavens, stabbing into the ranks of the shadowspawn.  _ So, the Aes Sedai survived, _ Arcanum reflected,  _ and perhaps Cathon as well _ .

A small flash of red pierced through the air, the great crimson eagle clawing at the face of a boar-faced Trolloc. The Red Hand closed in from both sides, hemming the shadowspawn into the water, but resistance soon hardened in the Horde. Though they had taken heavy casualties from the surprise flank attack, the shadowspawns still outnumbered the combined Band at least two to one, and with the surviving Fades ruthlessly driving them, they began to fight back. If immediate actions were not taken, the Trollocs would recover enough to devastate the humans, and were already delivering a punishing counter-offensive.

This was the moment Arcanum was waiting for. The surprisingly rapid progress of the initial Trolloc advance had pushed the retreating catapults out of range of the river. The general had been caught off-guard, as he was planning to wait for the last possible time to unleash the surprise Borsy had set up. Until now, he had cursed the lost opportunity. But now, as his catapults advanced over recovered ground, and the majority of the Horde bottled up in the river, it proved to be the tantalizing target for which Arcanum had waited. 

"BLOW THE HULKS!" Arcanum bellowed, his voice carrying across the small rising in which the Thunder Legion had set up advance position. The catapults' carriages snapped their load up, arching up and slamming into thick knots of Trollocs in the river. But, their true targets were the buoyant wagons bobbing in the water, which were shattered by the rain of missiles. The splintered hulks soon leaked their glistening load into the river. The witch's brew diffused rapidly across the top of the water, the current stretching the black liquid around the Trolloc Horde.

Streaks of light arched from positions near the front lines, as archers dipped their arrows into the firepots and let fly at the river. Where the hail of glowing arrows touched the water, tongues of flames licked the surface, inferno swelling violently forth. Within seconds, the river was embroiled in a firestorm that swallowed the Horde. Trollocs that broke free were cut down as the humans closed in. Those who did not die to blades were driven to a fiery death. The Trolloc counterassault deteriorated to chaos, as they found disciplined soldiers to the front and an inferno to their back. The Band of Red Hand was merciless, forcing the last Trollocs to their death in the smoking blaze.

With victory nigh, medics swarmed the fields, bringing in the wounded and dying, setting up camp near Arcanum's station. A particular arrival caught Arcanum's eye, a man whose entire skin surface was a mass of fresh burns and glistening blisters.

"Borsy?" The general hurried over to the prone shape, lying on the makeshift cot. The man opened his blood-shot eyes and gazed up at Arcanum. The Thunder Lord knew immediately that the Chief Engineer would not survive his devastating injuries.

Drov Borsy opened his cracked lips slightly, "Killed by my own creation." 

This was followed by a soft raspy chuckling noise, as he struggled for breaths against the thick black eschar constricting his chest and neck. Borsy sighed, "Got caught in the collapse of a burning fieldwork. The soldier who dragged me out...should've left me there. Only postponing..."

The engineer's eyes clouded for a second, then refocused, "Afraid I can't make that...design of yours, Diest. Leis Nosi...will take over. He's a good man. I’m glad to see the burning river. It was...beautiful."

Borsy sighed once more, a whisper of breath’s end, before descending into final silence.

Arcanum kneeled silently for a moment, then detached the man's tattered and burnt cloak and placed it over the blackened corpse. In a quiet voice unlike his namesake, he murmured, "May you find the way to Manetheren, my friend."

Arcanum stood up and watched the final moments of the battle. The river fire burned hot, consuming the bodies of its victims, its thick, black plume rising into the air. Two red eagles flew around the pillar of smoke, dancing ever upwards. The wall of fire separated the two halves of the Band, but would soon expire.

"Thank you, Caldazar." Arcanum called to the eagles as they disappeared into the cloud. A single red feather floated down, alighting upon Borsy's covered body.


	15. Red Flood

The Band of Red Hand stood united before the river of smoldering smoke, the fire's thirst quenched. A spirit of joy and victory suffused the red-cloaked soldiers who had seized victory from the teeth of the Horde. The loss at Getty's Canyon was only a faint memory to the infused soldiers of Manetheren.

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon felt that elation rising, a sort of weightless after the long ages of bearing a heavy burden, a victory long awaited for, a victory so sweet. He stood before the cheering soldiers, the smoking sign of their victory bellowing up behind him.

"It seems your luck still remains, General?" Airena Andalusa gave him a rare quirked smile, "So, you were right after all."

"High praise from you, my lady Airena." Cathon grinned back, and feeling the light spirit of the moment, bowed graciously and kissed her hand. The Aes Sedai touched his cheek lightly and dipped into a slight curtsy. She stepped back to allow Vader to greet Cathon.

"Sir, welcome back to the land of the living," Stren Vader took one knee before Cathon, "I return the office of the Marshall-General back to your hands."

"You have done well, Bastion. If I were to leave in earnest for the land beyond, I will know that the Band will remain well in your able hands, as we had seen today." Cathon placed his hands around the general's shoulder.

Vader stood up, and the two Marshall-Generals clasped hands, the final sign that the Band was whole once more. Vader bowed off, and Cathon turned to face his men.

"True sons of Manetheren!" Cathon shouted over the cheers of the soldiers, "Caldazar has given us this chance, has brought us together once more, for that task that remains. The enemy that hounded us has been destroyed, but the greater enemy still awaits. Though we have become one once more, we have suffered grievously. From Getty's Canyon to this Burning Rivers, we have lost over twenty thousand men of Manetheren, including Lieutenant-General Hill and countless others. Buried in a strange land far from home.

"But we still stand. For we are the steel of Manetheren. Though the Hordes may have stolen the secret of our forge from the Homeland, they have not mastered the art. Their mortal flesh may be stronger, but they are brittle, and will break with a heavy blow. Steel will win over iron, for we will keep on, no matter how beleaguered and battered we are. For they fight for blood and greed, we fight for Manetheren.

"Let the shadows tremble in fear. Let the creatures of darkness howl in terror. Let the black flood churn in dread. For the Band of Red Hand approaches. We have paid the Butcher's Bill too long. It is time to challenge the Butcher himself.

"We bring the blade of red fire to consume the shadows. We bring the chalice of red blood to cleanse the land. We bring the talons of the red eagle to pull down the Fortress of Night. We bring the Red Hand to strangle the Dark One in his own parlor.

"Let the red flood flow forward, for we cannot be stopped. We are the Curse of the Blasted Lands, the Foe of the Shadow, and the Thorn in the Dark One's Side. To Shayol Ghul we march this day! And arrive at last tomorrow!

"Forward the Band of Red Hand! Forward the Caldazar, Forward Manetheren!"

" _ Shen an Calhar! Shen an Calhar! _ "

"To Shayol Ghul we march!"

The roar of the soldiers stirred the air, the calls of the men who dared to defy the gods themselves.


	16. In The Shadow of Shayol Ghul

Every red-cloaked soldier knew they were at the final league; their destination loomed ever higher. But they were driven, the victory the day before easing their weight, and the wings of Caldazar drove them forth. As the sun began to dip in the sky, the Band stopped at the edge of a canyon whose interior was immersed in fog, through which a giant spire rose forth, its peak disappearing far above.

" _ Thakan'dar _ ." Stef Reimos whispered, tales of his youth returning to his mind. The eternally shrouded valley where the Black Miasma rests, cold as death itself, and half as forgiving. The Band began to circle around the high cliff, seeking an incline down and a place to rest. Stef was caught off guard when he walked under the limbs of a massive tree, for this one looked quite...deader...than the other foliage of the Blasted Lands. His sweeping gaze saw that they had entered a forest, sprawling forth, disappearing into the fog, and beyond in the other direction. These trees did not reach or grab at the passing soldiers, and though their barks were marked by bores and blisters, lacked the sickly growths that the Band had often encountered. In fact, these trees would not be amiss growing in the Westwoods.

"Even the Horde needs healthy wood for their furnaces and war machines." Tayren said, reading Stef’s mind, "Though they probably burn souls for fuel, or what not. But still, I am sure that it would be quite a pain for the Spawns to hafta fight every tree they needed to use."

"More’s the luck for us then. They’re ours for the takin’." Cordin Brogan joined in.

The Band came to a clearing in this forest, presenting all the soldiers with an unadulterated view of Shayol Ghul. The Valley of Thakandar sloped upwards at an almost gentile incline, which Stef realized was the main path. The forest grew to the left, and Thakandar steeped to the right.

"So we have arrived." Stef breathed heavily, his eyes traveling up the black bulk. What the bloody hell were they thinking? There was no way they could take this massive, sinister bastion. But he locked away those doubts, and followed the orders to set up camp.

A messenger rode past, to gather companies for wood duty. Stef was finally glad that he was not "volunteered" this time, giving an audible sigh at the messenger's back. Though the majority of the timber went towards the huge tower-thing growing high up near the back of the camp, companies were allotted small portions.

Stef took his company's share eagerly, starting a bon-fire as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Although the fire was not needed in the muggy weather, it, well, felt  _ good _ . In the darkness is where men are most vulnerable, their strongest tools useless. Near the pinnacle of evil, it gave the men confidence to have a fire that crackled and popped and took their attention from the morrow's target. Stef thought he knew what the primitive men must have felt when they created fire, for it gave a sense of power to the wielder. The camps had been immersed so long in darkness because of lack of fuel, the return of the fire was like the homecoming of a dear friend.

And as tradition dictated, the men around the fires began to break into story and songs as they shared the hearth. They were no gleemen, but together, they were able to patch together epics of old, bawdy tavern songs, and even children’s tales.

Tayren surprised the group with his near perfect rendition of the Ballad of Caar One-Hand, the late father of King Aemon. Someone was even able to find a working flute for accompaniment. Tayren was no bard, but he did a surprisingly passable rendition as he sang of Prince Caar’s journey from Manetheren to Aridhol to redeem the fallen land, his days of dark torture by Mordeth, and his eventual flight to Aramaelle. He gave an attempt at the high notes of Rhea’s sonata where Caar fell in love with fire-haired Rhea, to much guffaw and laughter. But, he finished strong with the famous Prince’s Lament, where in order to redeem a Shadow-claimed Rhea, he allowed himself to be killed at her hands and save her soul. As he gave his last bellowing note, all the listeners clapped as if it was a wondrous gleeman’s show.

It was the highlight of the night, but soon the soldiers ran out of actual stories, and they turned instead to tales of the places they've been and their own lives. Stef felt better than he has been for a long time, sitting next to the dancing flame, and listening to the personal history of his companions.

And then it was the sergeant's turn, and as he gazed at the fire for a moment, started to speak.

"Well, my life began middling. Born in the city of Corartheren, son of a linen draper gone soldier. Life was hard, but then I don't need to tell you that. The war had been draining, many houses were abandoned, and food was expensive. Then my father went to the Band while I was seven. I grew up by myself generally, teaching and raising myself on the street. Had no father figures, since any able men were gone fighting.

"So, I joined the Post Sentries (lied about my age of course), and found myself stationed up near Jaramide. Well, the part that was still Jaramide that is, the Shadowspawn having run over the majority of it. I got stationed with a real silver tongued bastard, named Tayren Suturb. Well, I learned to fight, and luck brought me out of situations where I should've perished. We passed messages on for the partisans, and learned how to ghost stalk. Well, sort of. It was a hell of a time. We were set alone in a war torn zone with few experience and equipment. I can't even count how many times we barely escaped a Trolloc pot.

"The worst was probably the time that our entire sector was over-run by a Dreadlord and his cronies. When our base was discovered, we ended up on a dead run, dodging through dense foliage with them two steps behind us. At a gut wrenching time, Tayren must have hit a root of something—and I thought I had lost him, because a Trolloc patrol immediately jumped on us. But, I scrambled free, dove through a deep cluster of thorn brushes, which gave me enough head start to reach the closest green sector at dawn. Tayren showed up half a day later, nonchalantly, and we went back to work as if nothing had happened.

"Then, I got posted to Aelgar for basic training. I spent a couple months in the Monastery of the Moon by Ancohima. Didn't really like the Order of Black Moon, but I did learn a few moves. But give me a sword any day. I'd like to see even one of their Master of the Order throw a five hundred pound Trolloc.

"Well, my time was up, and I returned to Manetheren for leave. Then my ma died during a bad winter, and Light, I had nothing to stay for. I enlisted in the Band, and got made sergeant since all the other experienced soldiers were getting their head chopped off. And, here I am. Sitting outside the gates of the bloody Pit of Doom." Stef finished. He felt...strange...that his entire life story has gone out, all his life's aspirations and hopes summed up in some sentences. As he sat in the light of the flickering fire listening to someone's life, mortality intruded in his thoughts.

Stef twisted his lips at the irony, for after such years in battle with creatures bred to kill, he had begun to feel the touch of transience in his thoughts. Yeah, he had bouts of nerves when faced with rampaging beasts, but truly now did he realize the briefness of his own life. He felt the guilt and regrets of his life. If he could just go back through time, to be with his mother when she needed him instead of proving his manhood in the Jaramide posts. If he could just done all he should've done, instead of being the bloody idiot he had been. If only, if only. To face a future in a shallow pit, or to be a lifeless man like his father…

Speaking of whom, he had not seen Jorj much since the Shayol Ghul campaign, only fleeting sights of someone who could have been. His father had severed all his connections, and the son seemed to be following in the same footsteps.

Stef clenched his fists until they throbbed. No, he had a new family now. He wore that family’s crest on his back, and he sat now with his brothers, fathers, and sons of the sword. That was his only family that matters now, and the other thing that will keep him going. Yet, why did he feel so alone still. Stef sighed, clearing those thoughts from his mind. The battle for Shayol Ghul begins the next day. If it could be brought down, the war would be over, and a child, like he had once been, could have a father and the mother Stef had lost.


	17. Wings of the Night

"The Marshall-General has called a staff meeting." The messenger called to Arcanum, who waved him off with a dismissive hand. The general returned to his study of the beautiful item resting on the makeshift table inside the E-Corps' scavenged tent.

"The woodwork is excellent, in the present circumstances." Arcanum touched the piece, "And the design seems to operate elegantly. But it should, since it was mine after all."

"Yes, sir." Leis Nosi agreed, "Borsy had the main drafts all set up. We only needed the wood that we have found. It might not be sungwood, but it will do for its purpose."

Arcanum picked up the item and hefted it in his arms. To the layman, it would appear to be a giant crossbow, or to be more precise, a scaled down Ballista. The surface was unfinished, but to the general's eyes, it seemed radiant. He touched the loaded bolt and grunted satisfactory at its sharpness.

"The Arbalest." Arcanum murmured thoughtfully to himself, "How many of these can you provide me?"

"Well, currently most of the Corps is occupied with your Siege Trebuchets. But we have about five Arbalests in operational order."

Arcanum glanced up through the cracks of the makeshift tent, towards the three black titans looming up high into the sky. The three siege trebuchets were capable of launching a 1-ton boulder over nearly a league. While its massive size made it impractical for the roving ways of the Band, it was perfect for a siege of a fortress. However, Arcanum still had lingering doubt about its use against Shayol Ghul.

"Five will be enough. Keep focusing on the Three Idylls. If we can't crack the shell off that fat egg, we won't be able to do much of anything."

"We have made significant progress. But we have had setbacks with the departure of Borsy." Leis Nosi shook his head sadly, "We've taken a heavy pounding in the ranks, especially at Burning Rivers, victory or not. Many brilliant minds like Borsy died on the fieldworks as reserves. But the Siege Trebuchets will reach completion by morning. Though since we dumped all our naph and brew in that river, we will have to make use with mundane stones. Airena Sedai did offer to ward some of our rounds as well."

"Good, then that is all I needed to know. I must go see what Cathon wants." Arcanum turned to leave when the entire roof of the patchwork tent collapsed. Arcanum hewed his way out with his sword, throwing the canvas from his head with a curse. He looked up and stared into the eyes of a pale winged man. Arcanum tried to bring up a sword, but he was frozen upon the spot, his muscles paralyzed by the strange cooing emanating from the creature, like a siren's song.

Arcanum could only look up into the inhuman eyes as it approached. Something whistled hard past the captured general's ears and stabbed into the creature's chest. And exploded out of its back. And further stabbed into the ground thirty paces behind the collapsing creature.

"Bloody Draghkar." Arcanum found his voice and command of his body, his sword swinging forth to decapitate the already dead shadowspawn.

"At least we know this thing worked." Leis Nosi walked up, the Arbalist slung on his shoulder, "Overkill... if there is such a thing in war."

"It is not tactical sense to send one of these creatures to kill even a general, unless...raise the alarm, Nosi. If I'm right, there's more Draghkars around. A lot more."

Arcanum crumpled up some parchment to stuff in his ears, before grabbing the Arbalist and bolt pouch from Nosi, who left at a run. Arcanum jammed in a fresh bolt and winched it up as he raced towards the more populous areas.

The swishing of a fast-moving object was the only warning before something hit him in the back, sending him sprawling. Arcanum watched his arbalest spin away, but rolled to a crouch. He pulled out his sword and jammed it into the chest of the poised Draghker, who instead gurgled and tumbled.

Arcanum pulled out his blade and kept it at ready as he retrieved his arbalest. He could hear shouts and calls from the once quiet camp, the sign of a massive raid. As he sprinted closer towards the sleeping areas, he could hear the ring of steel and the shriek of arrows. In the dead of night, he almost tripped over a body. Glancing down at the red-cloaked corpse, Arcanum blanched. Even in the dim light, it looked like something had sucked all the life out of it, its face frozen in surprise.

Arcanum came upon a still raging battle, a squad of men attacking a flying Draghkar who managed to elude their reach. Arcanum brought his arbalest to bear, checked the aim, and let fly with its bolt.

The Draghker fell like a stone.

Arcanum gave a grunt of satisfaction and reached back to discover that there was only one bolt left. He was loading it when the sentry alarms began to go off. Bugles shattered the night with their warning calls, and black hulking shapes began to stalk into the camp. The general cursed as he tried to ram the bolt into its locking carriage, as the shapes grew closer.

A grotesque bear-head loomed down at the general, when Arcanum stabbed him through the muzzle with his sword. Arcanum pulled his blade out, warm liquid dripping down into his hands. He gave up on the arbalest and began to retreat from the fringe of the camp. The Draghkers had tried to work a diversion, for this coming onslaught, and Arcanum did not feel like fighting it alone.

Rallying calls filled the night, as the Band of Red Hand recovered from the surprise attack. Knots of men formed up, and began to cut up the lone elements still present in the camp interior, and turned to face the Trollocs charging in. The fighting turned to close quarter melee, the most dangerous kind when facing creatures of larger girth and strength.

With much of the camp in turmoil, Arcanum began to call out orders to the defenders. Recognizing the general, soldiers began to rally around, a dangerous obstacle in the spawns' way. Like a blacksmith's hammer, Arcanum's company slammed into the Trolloc forces.

Arcanum slashed across a Trolloc's face, and kicked him back, to reveal the figure of an eyeless rider gazing down. Arcanum swung his arbalest up and fired, the bolt stabbing forth. The Fade grabbed the bolt in mid-flight, and snapped it contemptuously. The creature sneered and struck forth. Arcanum barely parried the blow, saved by his rapier training. Though his swordsmanship was not on par with Cathon's, he could manage his own.

The Fade did not realize that his minions lay dead around, and only too late did he realize that he was surrounded by Arcanum's men. It twisted its sword around, to hew a way out, but succeeded in only shattered a soldier's upraised iron shield. Arcanum took the opportunity to swing the arbalest into the Fade's face, its hard edge splintering upon impact. Arcanum's second blow was with his blood-blackened sword, severing the shadowspawn's milky white visage from its neck.

In one motion, the soldiers ducked away, as the corpse shivered and thrashed, and finally stilled when it apparently realized that it was past sundown.

Arcanum glanced around to see only the figures of humans, with the Trolloc raid quashed. He glanced at his sword, hammered of the best Manetheren steel, drenched in the corrosive spawn ichors. He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped clean his sword to the best of his abilities, and threw away the dissolving shred of cloth. He regarded the bodies lying around, and bid good duty to the men who had rallied around him.

As the soldiers began to dissolve into the night, Arcanum remembered that he had a meeting to attend. He sheathed his sword, gazed sadly upon the shattered remains of the arbalest spread across the ground and strolled away toward the direction of HQ.


	18. Caldazar's Gifts

Lawe Cathon breathed in and felt the old chest wound throb with a dull pain, the result of the recent activity. He was not a young man anymore, and close-quarter battle was a laborious exercise. He was too proud of a man to acknowledge this fact though, and instead of entreating Airena for a healing, kept this hidden, even when she flat out asked him. 

" _ Old _ man, are you sure that you are okay?" The Aes Sedai glanced at the general, her green eyes flashing.

"Twas nothing you need to mind yourself of, Airena Sedai." Cathon replied, hiding a wince at the sudden effort, and reminded himself to take smaller breaths. He glanced at the shredded remains of the already mutilated HQ tent and sighed. The Draghkers had brought down the canvas upon the heads of the congregating generals and attempted to pick them off one-by-one. But, there was hell to pay as the generals were not unacquainted with swordplay. Cathon did not dishonor his Aristocracy training, and personally brought down two of the shadow's assassins. When Airena and Warder came upon the scene, it was all over for the Dragkhers. To which, the commanders turned towards the routing of the Trolloc raid.

With the beasts' corpses being dragged away from camp (out of healthy fear of their being agents of contagion), the site returned to a semblance of order, and the generals, patched and healed, returned their attention back to the summit.

"Well, it does seem that we must hold this meeting outside." Cathon said, and nodded to Airena, who waved a hand. Though Cathon saw nothing, he knew a ward against wandering ears had enveloped the generals. A shape approaching the congregation soon showed himself to be Arcanum, who entered the sphere after being verified by Warder.

"We have all arrived thus." Cathon cleared his throat, "Well, this assault of the Shadowspawn will not hold us from our attack tomorrow."

"Should not have Airena Sedai's wards given warning of the Draghkers?" Arcanum spoke up.

"My wards, so close to the core of the Dark One, are failing." Airena coolly remarked, "This is the Sightblinder's domain, and I hold little power here unassisted. Simply put, I will be unable to assist in most ways in your assault in the morrow. I can feel the threads of the One Power here grow wild and hard to control. Channeling in  _ Thakan'dar _ can be a death sentence for even those who are under the Dark One's guide. But I will put up wards against Nightstalkers or Phantom Blades tonight. They may hold up, but I cannot guarantee it."

"We strike one hour after dawn." Cathon said, "Dawn and dusk are immediately ruled out, for as we all must know, the Dark One has his greatest strength during the death of day or night. Through the section of the valley we perceive to be the main pass. As for the Gates of Night, we leave that to Arcanum."

"As you all see, the Siege Trebuchets are near completion." Arcanum said, "And guarded now with the E-Corps' newest machines, the Arbalests. Trust me, that less the Gates are made of heart stone, they will break."

"Shayol Ghul and Thakan'dar will be the heaviest challenge the Band will ever face." Airena Sedai watched each general's face carefully, "All of you have entered directly into the Dark One's sphere of influence. Close as we are, tonight, no men will be able to sleep, for all they will dream are nightmares and incubus. Fear and despair may take them tomorrow, no matter their blood. I will not lie to say that my doubts are great upon the success of your siege."

"I am quite disappointed that you will be unable to lend us much aid, though I do not wish to risk you." Cathon said softly, "But this is a task for Manetheren, and with Manetheren shall we win."

The Marshall-General leaned and picked up a simple red-gold container from the ground by his feet. As the box rotated through the air, its exterior gleamed softly, a testament to long hours of polishing. A small gold eagle adorned the otherwise plain cover, and was smooth all around, showing no cracks of openings.

"A dagger if you will." Cathon asked, his hands moving across the box, feeling its smoothness. Notar hesitated and then drew a bronze-hilted dagger, placing it in the proffered hand. Cathon nodded to Notar, and placed the edge blade against his left thumb and drew it across the skin. A thin trail of blood gleamed in the torchlight as he turned his hand above the container, and squeezed out drops of blood from his cut. The droplets fell upon the red-gold box, pooling for a moment before soaking into the metal.

A line sliced across the box's exterior, enlarging to reveal the opening that was not there before. Cathon returned Notar's stiletto, and opened the box to reveal its interior.

Vader, a Second Lord of Manetheren and almost as well a study of history as Cathon, was the first to recognize the objects, "Light, Cathon. The  _ Timari _ !"

Airena narrowed her eyes at the items cradled in the box, " _ Timari _ ? Shells?"

"If you will permit me, Cathon." Vader received the container from Cathon, staring into it with amazement, "How is it you possess this?"

"I am a First Lord of Manetheren and have all rights to the  _ Timari’al’Caldazar _ ."

"If you will excuse my impertinence," Trystan grunted, "But I've never heard of these Shells of Caldazar."

"Allow me, Cathon..." Vader said, "Some call it but an artifact of history, others the true source of power for Manetheren. In the years following the Founding, came the time known as the False Dusk. A creature of the Dark One, stronger than any that ever existed and now long dead, came into the world of the Living. Upon the Day of  _ Umbri _ , the creature swallowed the Sun as all watched, to the amazement of even the staunchest skeptics. Queen Sorella ay Marena asked the aid of Caldazar, who has been the patron of Manetheren since the days of Jaralus. And in that battle, the creature consumed Caldazar as well, but before she died, she clawed open the belly of the Shadow Maw from within, and the sun fell from the Maw, falling upon the earth of Manetheren, falling upon the nest of Caldazar. And where it touched, a mountain of fire rose.

"Now all accounts say that Sorella came to the Mountains, walking through the rivers of fire, to the nest of Caldazar. The egg had been shattered by the fall of the Sun, but the young red eagle survived; Caldazar was reborn in the fire, and took to the skies. And Sorella sung her praise, and took the six pieces of the eggshell, whose power Caldazar had bound to its own. And Sorella and Caldazar banished the Shadow Maw to whence it came, and pulled the sun back into the sky.

"The mountains of fire died, and in its place stood the Misty Mountain, and where the nest of Caldazar perched, Sorella placed the city of Manetheren, and set the shells to metal and chains. And the shells were passed on from generations to generations, under protection of the Monarch and Lords, for the time of the Last Defense of Manetheren."

"The Shells of Caldazar will allow our victory tomorrow, as it allowed Sorella's banishment of the Shadow Maw." Cathon took the container, and slowly withdrew each of the six items. They did not look to be shells, but shimmering medallions, dangling by silver chains. "It is my strongest advice that each general wear this during the attack, for you will be awarded some protection against the Dark One's touch per legend. I do not make promises, for this is His Domain. But they are better than nothing."

Cathon carefully placed each medallion into the hands of the generals, "And to how I possess this, I will tell you. When King Aemon pledged the Band to the Covenant immediately after his coronation, he handed the Cradle of the Shells to Marshall-General Prodis, First Lord, and said, 'Manetheren is with you, for you  _ are _ Manetheren. Go with the Shells of Caldazar, in the last defense of Manetheren.' And, when Prodis died at Wikun's Folly, the Shells were passed to me. And the destruction of Shayol Ghul will preserve Manetheren's safety, for can anything else be the Last Defense of Manetheren?"

Cathon finished, and stood silent for a moment, "That is all we have tonight. You each know your personal orders. Dismissed."

Cathon fastened the medallion upon his own neck, and gazed up quietly up at the heavens, as the generals departed. He was brought out of contemplation when he realized that Diadrem still remained.

"Marshall-General, sir." Diadrem said, his hand still holding his Shell, "I regret to say that I will not be able to wear this tomorrow."

When Cathon arched his brow, Diadrem continued, "My men do not receive this protection that I do. And I will not go into battle knowing that I am at less risk than they are. I ask the same of them that I ask of myself. I cannot."

Diadrem placed the medallion in Cathon's hands, saluted smartly, and left.

Cathon glanced at Diadrem's Shell, and slowly placed it back in its Cradle, sealing it.

"Cathon, do you truly believe that you can take Shayol Ghul? That those medallions will protect your men?" Airena Sedai asked, now standing alone with the general.

"That is a question I ask myself time after time." Cathon replied, "But do not think that I am insane to attack Shayol Ghul. I am not so foolish to think that I will raze the walls of the Black Bastion and kill the Dark One in a duel. The Pits of Doom and the Seal and Bore I will not disturb. I am no Dragon."

"Then what is it you are attempting to accomplish?"

"I am not irrational. Many reasons dictate this attack. Shayol Ghul is the breeding grounds of the Shadowspawn. Slay the spawns of the spawns, and slay their mothers, and the War Machine of the Dark One grinds to a halt. Enough time for the Nations of the Compact to recover and prepare.

"The war is wearing the nations out, and there is no end to sight. A titular destruction of the seat of the Shadow will do much to restore faith.

"Finally, I ask you, Airena Sedai, why after all those long centuries after the Breaking had the Trollocs stormed Barsine, to start the Trolloc Wars. Why had they not begun earlier before the Covenant was even formed? Creatures of strength they are. Creatures of intelligence and planning they are not. For such organization in this war, they are driven by something. Some _ one _ . The Dark One is still sealed, so they take command from someone else. Who do you think planted that forest? Would the Dark One care if his minions are efficient or not? The driving forth of the Trolloc resides in Shayol Ghul. The General, if you will, must die. And when he dies, the Trollocs will lose their leadership and falter.

" _ That _ is why we are here. Not for some delusion of grandeur, but for the cold, listed reasons of stopping this  _ War _ ." Cathon finished almost at a shout, and composed himself. The pair was surrounded by silence, before the Aes Sedai changed the subject.

"And the  _ Timari’al’Caldazar _ , Cathon?" She asked, her eyes glancing down at the closed box, "How is it that few know of this?"

"Matters of Manetheren are matters of Manetheren, Airena." Cathon glanced at Airena. With the high shadows cast by the torches, Cathon realized the Aes Sedai looked quite bewitching, though she might have found the term offensive.

The Aes Sedai accepted his explanation, and glided closer, touching the medallion hanging from his neck, "An odd artifact...I have never seen anything quite like this. That design, especially. That looks like the Flame of Tar Valon and the other....If..."

Cathon felt icy coldness seeping through his shirt from the medallion, and Airena drew back in surprise. It was one of the few times Cathon had seen Airena so astounded, her eyes widening.

"Are you alright?" Cathon moved towards her.

"I...my powers..." Airena looked up at Cathon, "Must be failing so close to Shayol Ghul..."

Then Airena almost ran away into the darkness, Warder taking up her side. Cathon looked down at his medallion, and slowly traced his fingers over the foxhead engraved upon the  _ Timari _ .


	19. The Fog of Dreams

The shadows stalked Stef Reimos. Wherever he turned, he could see a blur of motion at the edge of his eyes. But, when he turned to look, he only saw murky mist. The shadows taunted him with shrieking voices with words almost recognizable but alien in meanings. Fingers of cold touched him, scratching at him with banshee cries. Stef felt trapped in a vortex of murky haze; every direction was the same, like an impenetrable prison wall. And the shadows followed.

Stef drew his sword and turned to face the shadow creature. It was a figure of swirling black smoke, and it did not run this time. A shadow sword appeared in its hand, and Stef thought he detected a sneer on the faceless visage.

Stef struck forth and was parried aside by the ethereal blade. The two combatants fought forward and back, swords colliding in silence. Back and forth. The shadow man knew all of Stef’s moves, blocking all of his advances. Stef had a difficult time following the movement of the assailant, whose edges blurred into the background.

And as they fought, the mist shrieked in Stef’s ears, tendrils of dread curling around his skin. Unseen eyes watched and waited, unseen hands grabbing at him. Stef recoiled from the grasping wisps of shadows, his sword swinging frantically. The shadow man kept advancing, the fog around him becoming solid, trapping Stef in an opaque prison. Stef felt like he was strangling, the fog choking his lungs. He clawed at the walls of his prison, his sword cutting harmlessly through the air.

He spun around in a desperate lunge, his sword cutting through his opponent armor and helmet effortlessly. The head of the shadow man fell, its body dissipating into the mist. Stef glanced down at the decapitated head, whose features began to appear, and shift like hot wax to a face so familiar. It was Tayren. The figure's eyes locked on his and grabbed his tunic with bloodied hands.

"Burn it, Stef." Tayren grunted, his hands warding off Stef’s blow.

Stef sat up, shaking his head clear of drowsiness. His head was stained with sweat, and his clothes stuck wetly to his skin. The last vestige of the nightmare slowly faded away, but it left a bitter taste behind.

"Bad dream?" Tayren seemed to sneer in the colorless light. He offered a hand and helped pull Stef up.

"Yeah. Yeah, you could say that." Stef stretched his cramped muscles. His legs and arms were sore, and his hands felt numb from lost circulation.

"I'm surprised you actually slept last night." Tayren grunted, picking up Stef’s crumpled cloak and tossing it to him, "Most of the camp was up. Night terrors, phantasms, what have you. I was up all night, and I was ready to kill you for being able to sleep half the time, ya bastard."

"Well, I was always a deep sleeper." Stef glanced at the black circles under Tayren's eyes, "But I didn't get much rest anyway. So what was your dream?"

Tayren eyed Stef, "Dreams be a man’s own business."

Stef shrugged it off and glanced around to see his squad doing final checks on their equipment, "So are we moving off?"

Tayren glanced at the sun high in the sky, "Yeah, orders just came around. The siege begins. You get three guesses at what we drew, and the first two guesses don't count."

"Light, damn the generals! Front lines?"

"Your favorite." Tayren scrubbed at his unkempt hair and gave a toothy but halfhearted grin.

Stef cursed but accepted his accursed fate, "Alright, get the squad going. The earlier we get in position, the earlier we can resume duty as honorable meat shield."

With that, the men of Stef’s squad finished decamping and moved towards the waiting lip of Thakan'dar. Messengers and mounted soldiers raced around, delivering last-minute notices, jostling Stef and earning his curses. One of those notices found his hand, which he tossed away after a brief glance.

"Alright, looks like Zephyr Hawk's taking the middle of three vans. We are that bloody spearhead, my friends. The first in the foray, the first out dead," Stef bellowed, "Any men with a problem with that, petition the new shiny commander of ours and see how that works out."

Stef found a spot in the middle van and found he was afforded a considerable view of the valley of Thakan'dar arrayed before. To his estimation, it was about three leagues long: three leagues of blind combat, the worst kind. Visibility and communications will be at a minimum, placing the Band at a horrible disadvantage. Another Getty's Tomb, with half the visibility and double the danger.

Horns began to signal, which Stef at first thought to be the starting signal. Before he signaled his men forward though, he noticed mounted horsemen approaching.

They were considerably armored, but were generally arrayed like the light cavalry. However, what was most surprising was that they were the generals, save for the Thunderlord. As they approached the front of the vans, they split up, each spreading among the front of the foot soldiers. Right before Stef, the gaunt figure of Drogan Trystan glanced down at his Legion along with the striking face of Lawe Cathon.

"We will be riding with you this day." Cathon spoke simply, "At the front lines. In the time of Arad when Jara'Copan came under siege, stood the Seven Gatekeepers of the Seven Gates of the Seven Hills. Now, in the time of Aemon, this is our gate, and we will lead you through."

There was a brief silence before the soldiers erupted in cheers. Even cynical Stef was taken aback.  _ Maybe the generals ain’t half bad. _

Cathon raised a hand to quiet the Band. When silence fell again, Cathon raised his sword and pointed at Shayol Ghul, "That is our destination. We cross through Thakan'dar. That path is  _ Bekkar _ , our Field of Blood. Tonight we will burn the Black Bastion down."

With that, he spun his horse and trotted forth down towards the valley. Four generals followed, and their trot kicked into a gallop. The Band roared with a battle cry and trailed their leaders, a mass of red pouring down into Thakan'dar, melting into the veil of fog.

Stef shouted as he raced down the incline, his gladius raised. He stepped into the shroud of Thakan'dar and stumbled. The fog was a choking blanket whose touch was cold, as cold as death could be imagined. It was a suffocating shield that threatened the sanity of any who entered. It was the fog of his nightmare.

He froze for a second, before the sight of the red-cloaked back of General Trystan caught his eyes. The fog almost seemed to be retreating away from the vicinity of the general, giving almost an aura of clarity around Trystan and his horse. With the general as Stef’s only land-mark, he had no choice but to trail the blurred colors of the general. The other soldiers followed accordingly, spurred on by their commanders' lead.

Through the haze they slogged silently, discipline keeping fear at bay. Just as Stef was beginning to wonder about the lack of resistance, the muffled haunting drumbeats of the Trollocs began to permeate sporadically through Thakan'dar.

The muted sound of clashing steel was Stef’s first warning. He almost crashed into a Trolloc in the fog, but recovered first and gutted the shadowspawn with a fast draw. The battle of Bekkar was on.

In the low visibility, squads stuck together hacking away at periodic resistance, and followed behind the generals leading the way. To Stef, it seemed all so surreal. The Black Miasma did much in strangling any sound and one could only see the bare snatches of movement in the thick fog, giving it a substance of fantasy. It was like his nightmare, except this threatened his very life, and the denizens of this place was corporeal flesh and rending steel.

Zephyr Hawk Legion blew through the first wave of Shadowspawn like an avenging tempest. General Trystan never faltered in his drive and the Legion kept pace with him. This spearhead led the way for the other legions, which tore through any survivors, cold blades flashing through hot blood.

Stef grew almost complacent, his attacks became mechanical. Slice, thrust. Slice, thrust. Slice, thrust. His eyes drew to its usual tunnel vision, and he allowed his body to take command.

A dark shape rose high through the fog in the distance. A  _ big _ shape. It rose sinuously to a towering height and more serpentine figures swelled up beside it.

General Trystan slowed, his horse struggled and rearing uncontrollably, and the men crawling to a halt beside.

Stef approached cautiously, his swords raised at the ready. A brief eddy in the fog gave the Band of Red Hand a brief murky view of their new foe. They were massive worm-like creatures towering high up in the sky, breaking even through the roof of the fog. Stef thought he could see the gleam of beady eyes and a shimmering something that looked too much like teeth. Down its side were rows of spikes, attached with chains that spilled down the side to the hands of a multitude of straining Trollocs. The handlers yanked and pulled at the chains, striving to keep the huge beasts in control. A force of chain and one of the creatures struck down at the advancing Band with its massive coils. Soldiers dived away as the creature's hide slammed down. Those who could not get out of their way were crushed under the massive bulk. Brief curving motions showed arrows showering the bulk, but they disappeared into the skin, doing no visible damage. More of those creatures began to strike, pounding heavily at the Band.

"JUMARA!" Trystan shouted, "Cut it to pieces!"

"Not that simple, General." Stef grumbled to himself under his breath, then immediately leaped back as a massive coil slammed into the ground by him, shaking the earth. A strange whistling shrieked from somewhere in the fog, and Stef groaned to himself, wondering what other creature was about to be unleashed upon them.

A fast-moving dark shape curved through the air above Stef, and slammed into the ranks of the Jumara handlers.

"Good ol Thunder Lord." Stef muttered to himself. The path of the giant boulder had cleared a brief gap in the fog, showing the chaos in the Trolloc ranks. The boulder had buried around three squads of handlers, and severed many more chains. The Jumara had taken that opportunity to flex its body, and pulled away from its surviving slavers. It snapped the remnants of its chains, sending bodies flying through the air. Freed, it turned its attention to its tormentors, its coils slamming down upon the Trollocs amidst Band cheers.

"Follow my lead!" Stef shouted, "This is our window."

Stef and his squad raced forward, as the renegade Jumara howled and struck at the Trollocs who were attempting to loop chains around it. Stef ran at a crouch, hoping the fog would cover the relatively small movement of his squad. He approached the closest chained Jumara, his heart racing.

Stef’s squad burst upon the handlers, swords dealing out death with the occupied Trollocs. The guards were quickly dispatched, and the humans began to work on the handlers. Some of the muscled handlers let loose their chains to draw weapons, but that worked to Stef’s plan as well. The Jumara sensing its lax chains followed its struggling kin's lead, and pulled free.

Stef waved his men off, as the Jumara struggled free, its bulk dealing massive damage against the closest creatures. The chains still attached to its skin became deadly whips, which could easily crack bones and smash skulls.

A boulder slammed into another Jumara. The creature, fueled by pain and fury, shivered off its chains and captors, and raged against any mortals within range. The struggles of the Jumaras snapped the chains from their enslaved kin, and soon the Trolloc advance lines became a slaughterhouse of shadowspawn, as massive coils slammed back and forth, as nearly all the monsters were liberated. Unfortunately, this slaughterhouse was also centered over Stef’s squad.

Stef signaled frantically to his men as the Jumaras' insane thrashing pummeled the ground all around the sergeant and his squad. With the fog obscuring everything to shadows, a shadowy blur was the only warning for a giant coil slamming down. Such a blur flashed above Stef’s head, and he ducked for the ground. He felt the  _ woosh _ of a large coil passing over his head, and felt the ground buckle underneath him as the bulk made contact with the earth, slamming his chin into the ground. He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bit his tongue, but he shook off the pain.

He broke silence, shouting, "BACK! BACK TO OUR LINES NOW!"

A roar boomed high over his head and black shadows descended on the sergeant. He scrambled to his feet and began to race in the general direction of the Band's line, then threw himself sideways as a black shadow appeared over him, and resolved into the flesh of a Jumara. It slammed into the earth, its fall pushing the fog away long enough for Stef to glimpse deep red gashes scoring its skin. The Trollocs were attempting to kill the out-of control Jumaras. The creature still had life in it, as it thrashed back and forth, its chains beating the ground like a drum.

Something hissed down at Stef, who instinctively raised his sword arm to shield his face. Pain racked through his left arm as something hard smashed into and coiled around his arm. Time seemed to slow down as Stef gazed at the black chain wrapped around his extended arm. Then the Jumara twitched away, the chain wrapped around his arm withdrew with powerful force.

Stef felt the sudden jerk as he was yanked forward by his trapped arm for a second. But only for a second. Then he felt terrible pain. Fires consumed his arm, eating away at his entire body, chewing through every nerve.

He screamed, but the fog swallowed his voice.

For an instant, he felt all the pain in the world, liberating him from his body. He felt the pain of all the orphans in Manetheren. The pain of all the widows. The pain of the dead and dying that littered the Band's journey from the Mountain Home to the Land's End. The total pain of his life and suffering. The total pain of the war.

He could suffer no longer. The fire ate all that it could consume.

He welcomed the darkness.


	20. Honor, Valor, and Liberty

Diest Arcanum shielded his eyes with a hand, and called up towards the top of the siege trebuchet, "How's she holding up?"

"The hoists had been reinforced, General," Captain Nosi replied as he eased off the ladder that crept up the tall side of  _ Honor _ , "I thought she was going to fold for a moment there."

In mid-arc, the giant trebuchet had snapped some of the rope supports nailed to the ground. The wooden structure had teetered on the edge of falling, threatening to crush everyone beneath and throwing off those who were perched upon it. It just managed to stabilize as the engineers managed to sever its load. The boulder had misfired, but thank the Creator and Caldazar, had plowed harmlessly away from Thunder legion. Nosi's corps had immediately sprang into action and seemed to have corrected the problem.

The other two Idylls were still firing away, boulders arching across Thakan'dar, just ahead of the Band's position. Arcanum could not see any aspects of the battles of Bekkar, due to the Black Miasma, and had to rely blindly on messengers to relay the positions of the men, one of whom was now arriving.

The messenger skirted the perimeter lines and halted upon seeing the general.

"What of those creatures, the  _ Jumara _ ?" Arcanum called.

"Your volley did much damage, as did the courage of many soldiers." The messenger took a deep drink from his canteen and wiped the sweat from his face, "They have turned against their owners, and we have broken their lines. The first van is about two leagues forward, the flanking vans right behind. The Marshall-General estimates we will recover for that delay. The first wave of the wounded will arrive here soon. Cathon asks that the Gates of Night be down by the time the first van wipes its feet on the doormat."

"You shall have your opening." Arcanum waved for a remount.

An attendant quickly arrived with a fresh horse for the messenger and led off the exhausted steed. The messenger gave a salute to Arcanum and galloped back down into Thakan'dar, immediately swallowed up by the fog.

"HIT THE GATES WITH ALL YOU HAVE!" Arcanum shouted. He was answered by  _ Valor _ who sent her missiles curving towards the black fortress. Arcanum squinted at its progress, then pulled out his new watch-glass, recently refurbished by Nosi. He peered through and nodded agreeably.

The boulders smashed into the high arched gate, which Arcanum presumed to be the entrance. They crumbled upon collision with the foreboding iron, spraying the ground with a shower of rocks. An explosion of sound announced  _ Liberty _ 's shot which slammed into a black tower some distances above the gates. The black stone yielded to the barrage, and the tower crumpled down, leaving an angry wound. The hit seemed to have stirred up clouds of thick dust that seemed to hang in the air.

And still hang in the air. And rapidly was growing larger. A black cloud driving rapidly over the valley towards the hill where the Idylls approached, thick with fluttering black creatures.

"Ravens!" Arcanum realized, "Entire flocks of them!"

Arcanum was quite familiar with the sight of shadoweyes, for the aftermath of a battlefield was completely infested with the black scavengers. But, he had never seen as many as the ones approaching now. There had to be millions upon millions.

"Nosi! Are there any more reserve naph or even pitch?"

"Last drops burned away at Burning Rivers. How many birds are we talking about?" Nosi exclaimed.

"Enough to coat the sun with black vengeance." Arcanum knew the damage a flock of shadoweyes this large could do. Sharp beaks that could pluck out eyeballs and draw skin and flesh from the bones.

"Should we maintain our positions?" Nosi asked, studying the approaching cloud objectively.

"Get your men off the Idylls. They'll be helpless targets up there." Arcanum began bellowing, "ALL ARCHERS FORM FRONT. NOW!"

"We have some visored helmets in our armory, perhaps enough for this legion." Nosi noted.

"Get them," Arcanum replied. Archers raced forward from their perimeter positions, crouching at the front of the Idylls. The earth shook as the engineers on  _ Liberty _ unhitched its load, dropping the boulders down below. Men began to scurry down the massive trebuchets as fast as they could.

Arcanum moved toward the archery lines. He was flanked by a squad of Arbalest-bearing guards, or Arbies, as the men had taken to calling it. But the Arbie bolts would not fare well against the small, agile shadoweyes, and would only prove cumbersome. Yet, with the ravens bunched so close, it would be nearly impossible to miss. As the general studied the lines, he knew that there were not enough archers to keep the flocks at bay. He doubted all the archers in the Grand-Legion could even dent that black cloud. He had only placed footmen and archers in one Banner of the Thunder Legion as an afterthought, just enough to protect his precious siege engines. The legion may pay for that oversight now.

Arcanum brought his steel visor down, leaving a slit of visibility. He hated having his vision hindered, but he would probably hate having his eyeball torn out even more. Spare helmets found their ways through the ranks, and the soldiers quickly donned them, as the thick cloud of shadoweyes descended.

The ravens blocked out the sun, casting a black shadow over the soldiers. Arrows took flight and avian bodies tumbled downwards. Then the ravens dove, and everything dissolved into chaos. Arcanum drew his sword as the world around him descended into sharp beaks and fluttering wings. He sliced at his attackers, but they surrounded him, attaching to his arms and torsos with sharp talons. Beaks drew blood, snapping at any exposed skin. As Arcanum flailed blindly at his assailants, he ruefully reflected that perhaps the visor didn't hinder his vision, since they were truly nothing to see but blackness. Then he felt more than saw the hesitations of the ravens, which after their initial strike, began to avoid Arcanum, fluttering away and colliding with their brethrens. Arcanum clutched the Shell hanging from his neck, thrusting it out and the ravens shrieked away as if it was a blinding torch.

His steel breastplate and hard leather absorbed most of the meager shadoweyes' strikes, but he knew the lightly-armored archers would not be lucky. He could feel resistance to his sword sporadically as swung, hewing through wings and hollow-boned bodies. But, he could see nothing and hear nothing, as the air was saturated with the piercing calls of the shadoweyes.

Then a sudden rise in heat drew beads of sweat on Arcanum's face. A bright flash scoured the air, and the air was filled with burning feathers. Hot objects struck Arcanum from above, and he realized they were the still burning corpses of the ravens. When he felt no more attacks by sharp beaks, Arcanum raised his visor and gazed around amazedly.

The ground was littered with layers upon layers of charred avian corpses, emanating a sour-burnt stench that filled the generals' nostrils. The soldiers were also gazing at the ground in surprise, then glancing at their arms, blood streaming down from their wounds and slashes. Corpses of men also laid sporadically, so mutilated that Arcanum felt his gorge rising. A body nearby belonged to someone who had not received a helmet, and needless to say, much of his face was stripped of flesh, exposing the macabre grin of the skull.

The surviving ravens fluttered above, confused and dazed, still enough to blanket the sun. Then they found renewed courage, believing the worst was over, and the creatures shrieked back down. Intense ropes of fire flayed up and burning feathers drifted down.

The remaining unscorched ravens hung hesitantly in the sky, when suddenly they were set upon by an opposing swarm of deadly birds. Arcanum recognized peregrine falcons and red-tailed hawks, solo hunters that would never be found flocking, let alone so deep in the Blasted Lands. Against the deadly claws of the sky raptors, the shadoweyes might as well be fat, blind pigeons, dissolving instantly in the ruthless onslaught. The unlikely assortment of avian predators disappeared as quickly as they appeared, leaving the sky clear once more except for a haze of drifting feathers.

Confused at the spectacle but relieved nonetheless, Arcanum looked to the source of the flames, to see the swaying figure of Airena Sedai who had arrived on scene. Then she gasped and crumpled. Warder flowed forward, and caught the sagging Aes Sedai in his arms. Arcanum raced forward, burnt corpses crunching underneath his steps. Her face was pale, and her small frame spasmed slightly, but her eyes were open and seeing.

"The pain..." She murmured, "Backlash..."

Warder silently lifted her into his arms and raised his visored head to Arcanum, "She will be unable to fight today."

A helmeted soldier with the band of a healer studied her ashen face, "She is in shock. She will need rest."

"Take good care of her, Warder. She saved all our bloody lives today." Arcanum said. The Warder nodded slowly and removed something from Airena's slack fingers. It looked to the General to be a glass figurine of a pair of doves in flight. Then Warder carried her delicately towards her tent.

"We will set the healing stations here." The medic removed his dented helmet and tossed it to the ground. The wounded soldiers began to pour in, either limping with the aid of comrades or carried in on make-shift stretchers.

"Amazing, how such tiny creatures can do such great harm." Nosi remarked, staring down at his own helmet, which showed scratches and even dents from the assault. His left arm was completely bound by bandages, which already were stained by blood. A dark red wound graced near his nose from a lucky peck through the visor, barely an inch away from his left eye.

"Can your men return to duty?" Arcanum glanced down at his own arm. The Shell had seemingly protected him from grievous wounds. But much of his hard leather was pitted with holes, and he could feel stings of thousands of lacerations on his arms and legs. He could feel a dull pain in his left hand and had difficulty flexing his ring finger. A raven must have severed a tendon.

"They have already returned." Nosi replied, and his words were punctuated by the  _ CRACK _ of  _ Valor _ 's counter-balance slamming down, sending its load forward.

"It is bloody lucky that the Aes Sedai stayed with us instead of joining the main force."  _ Also lucky that they had some unlikely friends in the sky. _ Arcanum’s mind flashed to the glass figurine in the Aes Sedai’s hand. He shook his head and pulled out his watch-glass to follow the trajectory of Valor’s missile. The glass was broken.

After waiting for Arcanum to finish his curses, Nosi replied, "Yes, but it seems that even this close to the Dark Lord's domain, she cannot use the One Power without terrible pain. And with her out of commission, we will be unable to withstand another attack like that. "

"Then we'd better pray that's the last of them. Or else we will be forced to set an Idyll on fire."

_ CRACK! _

"General!" A soldier called out, drawing Arcanum's attention.

A man, who would be the right age for Arcanum's son if he had had one, approached, carrying an unconscious form in his arms.

"We found this soldier near the southern perimeter. His horse was dead of exhaustion. And I suspect he's falling to the same fate. He's been calling for the Marshall General." The soldier explained, setting his burden gently on the ground.

"Bring water." Arcanum kneeled beside the prostate figure. The soldier nodded and ran off.

Arcanum brushed aside the long dark tresses that covered the face, and saw the mixture of dried blood and sweat carving rivers through the caked dirt. Blood also stained much of the soldier's black-red cloak, not a cloak of the Band of Red Hand. The uniform was frayed, but Arcanum immediately recognized it. The dark red cloak and armor, an accoutrement he had not seen in a very long time. He startled, and then studied the face.

_ CRACK! _

The soldier returned with a filled canteen. Arcanum took the leather skin and slowly dribbled water into the slack and cracked mouth.

"Is it...?" Nosi leaned over, his eyes opening in recognition.

"Yes, our friend here is a she.  _ Valdar Cuebiyari _ . A Heart Guard. Aemon's personal guardians." Arcanum agreed. The woman coughed, and her eyes fluttered open slowly.

"My squad…last of my squad." The woman did not see the soldiers leaning over her, her clear blue eyes staring at the sky, "Manetheren. Manetheren calls…"

She raised one arm, reaching for a leather-pack she wore on her belt. Her bare sun-scorched hand wavered, then fell. Her eyes saw nothing. Not even the sky.

Arcanum gently closed her eyes with two gentle fingers and poured the rest of the water on her face, washing clear the blood and sweat of her last journey for her King. It was a pretty face, but a worn face. He slowly opened the pouch and pulled out a single sheath of paper, crumpled and spotted with blood. He stood up, and the soldier who had brought her covered her body with the silver-edged cloak of the Heart Guard.

_ CRACK! _

"Blood of Manetheren forever. May Caldazar carry you on its back to the Land of your fathers. Land of Arad. You have done your duty for the Waters of the Mountain Home. Return in peace.  _ Aetern. _ " Arcanum whispered.

_ CRACK! _

Then a roaring cheer came from the soldiers by the Three Idyll. And Arcanum knew. The Gates of Night had fallen to the onslaught of  _ Honor _ ,  _ Valor _ , and  _ Liberty _ . The way was open for the Band of Red Hand. The destruction of the Fortress of Shayol Ghul was nigh.

Arcanum stood, silent and brooding. He studied the paper slowly. He read it twice. He glanced at the seal of the Red Eagle. The signature. The crest. Yes, it was genuine. He felt both numbness and pain flowing through his body, as if a hand had encircled his heart and squeezed.

"General, the hinges of the Gates have been knocked free, and the corrupted iron now hangs wide! What are your orders?" A voice called from the direction of the Trebuchets.

Arcanum closed his eyes and ignored the question. Finally, he turned to the young soldier who stood reverie over the Heart Guard, "Get all of our messengers. Call back the Generals. Tell them to return now."

"Sir?"

"You will tell them that Manetheren is under attack."


	21. Judgement Siege

"FORWARD!" Cathon called, his sword flashing red against the throat of a surprised Trolloc. The beast pitched backward, trampled under Cathon's black steed. The soldiers had hit a line of solid resistance, but with enough hammering the Band would soon smash through. Nothing mattered, for the news was on every soldier’s mind: the Gates of Night had fallen.

The Black Miasma shrouded the battle, muffling the howls of rage and the screams of pain. It was ethereal, the lives of men and beasts dying in near silence, strangled by a silent fog. It was a cold battle, where the heat of blood and sweat were robbed of their heat immediately upon touching the air. It occurred to Cathon that it was not an entirely healthy experience for anyone to be in this mist.

But yet, the fog shied away from the general, occasional tendrils probing but withdrawing as if stunned. An aura of clear air surrounded him, and contrasting with the translucent mist, made him glow in brightness. Naturally, that drew both friendly soldiers rallying to his blade and shadow fiends drawn inexorably to the lodestone.

A ghastly face lunged out of the shadows, but Cathon smoothly shifted his blade back and scored a mortal blow between the Trolloc's plate armor. He withdrew his sword with the soft hissing of acidic blood boiling on the metal. He was glad he finally consented to Airena’s healing after she aggressively cornered him before the battle, as he otherwise would be struggling painfully to breathe by now. 

Then the shadows ahead coalesced into another shadow, a shadow that stalked with the suppleness of a hooded viper. A creature Cathon had fought and killed many times, but one who he will never underestimate. One with the gaze of Fear.

The Myrddraal flowed forward, black sword already stained with the life of mortals. Another shadow detached from the mist besides the dark rider, a second one.

Trollocs and soldiers clashed beside, but in this struggle there were only three: the Marshall General and the two Myrddraal.

In silence they met, and in silence, swords flashed in a macabre dance. Cathon engaged with the training of a First Lord of Manetheren, considered by some to be as good as a blademaster, but with others sneered off as aristocratic caprice. Regardless, against two fades, he soon found himself barely surviving as his opponents struck with perfect synchronization.

Back and back, Cathon was pressed, warding off blows that were too quick to be seen by mundane eyes, but which could rend immediately through a soul's mortal coil. Hard hits rained down upon the forge-hardened Manetheren steel, spinning dully through the murk. No existing man could match a fade in strength since the death of the giant-race, nor match the cursed luck of their dark Master. At least not by himself. For Cathon remembered that he did not fight alone, for Caldazar flew with him.

Renewed strength flooded his veins, and his sword arched out, meeting hard resistance for a bare moment. Then his sword touched air once more, and the head of the Fade toppled to the ground.

Then the general's warhorse keened and crumbled. The other Fade had struck even as his kin died in silence, his poisoned sword slicing through sinew and jugular, bringing the horse to its end.

Cathon hit the ground hard, his sword skidding across the hard ground, kicking up winks of blue sparks and disappearing into the fog. Pain shot up his legs as the heavy weight of his horse landed hard upon him, pinning him fast.

The shadowspawn dismounted slowly and approached the trapped general. Cathon tried to call out, but his voice was stolen by the fall. He glanced up at the eyeless face peering down, and he felt the tremors of fear encroaching upon his mind.

"I will enjoy this." The fade twisted its mouth into a semblance of a sneer, his voice like rotting leather. But there was an echo of a duplicate voice, as if another presence was riding in its head. "You have been quite a nuisance, General Lawe Cathon, First Lord of Annoyance."

A black gauntlet dropped to the ground besides Cathon, and a pale hand wrapped tight around the man's throat, tightening in an impossible steel vice. Cathon grasped the fade's arm, but the muscles were taut as iron and as unyielding. Black dots began to infuse his vision as the grip slowly closed. 

_ Caldazar! _ Cathon attempted to cry,  _ I call upon your aid. Caldazar! _

Cathon felt his strength leaving him and his visions fading into nothing. The crusade was lost. Lost to him.

A familiar shriek sounded somewhere in the mists of his mind. The call of an eagle that carried the heart of Manetheren in its breast.

_ For the last defense of Manetheren. _ Cathon grasped the dangling Shell of Caldazar and slammed it into the flesh of the Fade.

The result was immediate. The hand jerked from his throat and the Fade drew back, falling to the ground, his scream swallowed by Thakan'dar. A spiritual force smoked out from the back of Fade’s head, resolving briefly into an ethereal face with flickering flames for eyes and mouth, before it faded into fog. That would be Cathon’s first and only glimpse of the Adversary he had been pursuing. The injured Myrrdraal crawled away towards his horse, but he would never make it, for the wound was fatal.

Cathon coughed, drawing in deep breaths, but his visions were still darkened with spots. Fire burnt his lungs and raced up his throat. His head was still dazed from near-death, and he could not grasp conscious thought until brief moments later. He could only lie there in the cold mist, breathing heavily into the fog. The smell of burning oil emanated from his medallion, and the entire front was scored char-black. But ever slowly, the black steamed away in a noxious cloud, leaving the  _ Timari _ with its original brilliance.

He braced his arms against the hard rock and tried to pull himself out, but the horse was too heavy and his strength was still weak. He could still feel his legs, which he took as a good sign, and gave thanks to Caldazar once more, but that was the end of his luck. He was trapped somewhere in the battlefield and he could not count upon the arrogance of a next passing shadowspawn.

"General! General Cathon is that you!" A muffled but distinctively human voice called through the fog.

"Over here!" Cathon shouted.

A man took shape in the fog, almost stumbling over the general. Seeing the general's predicament, he quickly braced his shoulder against the horse's corpse, strained, and heaved it up just enough for Cathon to pull himself from underneath.

"Are you alright, sir?" The soldier asked.

"Yes, thank you," Cathon dusted off his cloak and stumbled to his feet. There was a stabbing pain in his legs, but slowly dulled to a gentle ache.  _ Not broken.  _ "How goes the battle, man?"

"We've...we've broken through the last lines. But, sir..."

"All the vans?"

"Yes, sir. But I bear a message from General Arcanum. It is imperative that you return to camp. To headquarters." The man relayed.

"What is-"

"Cathon!" Murky figures appeared, coalescing into the figures of Diest Arcanum and the rest of the generals, with a detachment of dirt and blood-stained guards.

"Arcanum, what is this? Should you not be manning the Idylls?" Cathon questioned, his brows raised in alarm.

"I think it is best if I told you in person." Arcanum spoke softly. The entire command staff stood beside him, grim.

"What has happened?" Cathon grew alarmed.

Arcanum tossed a piece of paper, yellowed and stained, to Cathon. The Marshall-General's hand touched the broken seal of the royal signet, and then unfurled the paper with an unsteady hand.

_ To the Marshall-General of the Grand Legion of Manetheren, _

_ Manetheren is in the path of a massive Trolloc Horde, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and led by many Dark Generals. We are in a dire circumstance and extreme peril. By order of the Hierarchy of Manetheren, the Grand Legion of Manetheren is called back to serve the Mountain Home in its defense. _

_ Aemon al Caar al Thorin, High King of Manetheren, Warden of the Mountain Hall, Keeper of the Shells of Caldazar _

Cathon looked up then began to slowly read the message again, a message that had just destroyed the hopes of the Covenant, a message that held his heart in a grip stronger than the Fade's.

"We must return." Arcanum growled softly.

"We have come too far to go back." Cathon kept his voice steady, "We have broken through their remaining lines. We can end it here now. Listen to me, Diest." The Adversary's ethereal face still burned in his memory.  _ They were so close _ .

"It is Manetheren, Cathon! Not Mafal Dadaranell, MANETHEREN!" Arcanum's eyes hardened.

"Give me one day and one night. One day and one night. To end the war here, and march back home with something to show." 

"One day more? One day more that the Horde camps upon our land. Killing our people. Burning our fields. Poisoning our homes. Do you think we would still have a home? We head back now, Lawe."

"Is this mutiny then?" Cathon said wearily.

"We have followed you faithfully into the mouth of Hell itself. But this is the end. By right of The Code, we can overrule your decisions or remove you from your position. You know this." Arcanum lowered his voice. The Code had never been called into action in the history of the Band of Red Hand.

"Is it so? Even you, Bastion?"

"We have a duty to hold for our country, a duty above all else." Vader replied.

"Is it unanimous then?" Cathon sighed, and found he had difficulty breathing. He realized how tired he truly was. His entire body ached and his soul was weary.

Slowly each general nodded: Diest Arcanum, Stren Vader, Drogan Trystan and finally Seth Notar. Only Jot Diadrem was missing. But it mattered not, for the affair was decided.

"Yield, Lawe Cathon. The men are recalled. We return to Manetheren." Arcanum pronounced softly.

"And I thus submit to the Circle of Judgment." Cathon met the hard gazes of the generals, but his words were not tinged with bitterness, though he certainly felt it. All this...all this for nothing. To take the easy road was to turn the bloody job to someone else, but Cathon could not back away from his responsibilities. It was not in his blood, for the only thing that could tear him away would be Death himself. He continued, "But I ask that I remain Marshall General, and I will lead the Band home."

There was a pause.

"So be it." Arcanum turned and melted away into the fog. Each general nodded their consent.

They departed into the Black Miasma, but Lawe Cathon placed a hand on the shoulders of Vader.

"I did what I thought was right, Lawe." The leader of the First Legion turned around, his eyes troubled, "It is our obligation."

"I understand, but why was Diadrem not here to add the finishing nail?"

Vader looked at Cathon for a moment, then said "Diadrem was killed in the first wave. Accidentally shot in the back by an archer through the fog. One of ours. Luck did not favor him this day. The course of the war, is it not? But come, general, we must withdraw, lest a similar fate befall us."

Cathon was not shaken by the demise of Diadrem. The long years of war had left him desensitized to death, the old acquaintance that rides the horse of Luck.  _ Jot Diadrem was a good man, the youngest of them all, and perhaps the most proud. He refused the Shell of Caldazar, but he died by his principle and honor. Death with honor, and thus discharged with all obligations. What other fate could a faithful son ask for? Indeed, duty is heavier than a mountain, and death lighter than a feather. I look forward to that day when my burden can be lifted. But until then, I must bear its weight. _

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon walked away from Shayol Ghul and the Adversary and never looked back.


	22. The Butcher's Bill

Stef Reimos groaned, feeling a dull pain echo deep within his head. He blinked against the sharp lines stabbing into his eyes, but could not find a clear vision. He tried to sit up, but found that his left arm did not seem to want to respond. Nausea racked his stomach and his vision dissolved into dark splotches.

"What's bloody wrong with me?" Stef muttered and brought up his left arm and squinted with a bleary eye. It was a bandaged stump, stopping just before the elbow, bound in a thick gauze, stained dark with dried blood.

Then the memories rushed in.

The earth shuddering as the Jumara thrashed in a crazed throe. A flash of light in the fog. The chain wrapped around his upraised arm. The crack of bones breaking. And as the Jumara struggled, it snapped away its chain with deadly force. Then pain. And only pain.

Stef cursed softly, mesmerized by the sight of his arm—or what was left of it. He could almost feel his fingers still...if he wanted to, he could move them, but they escaped his grasp. A lot of things escaped his grasp now. Then he could no longer maintain focus, as the world began to spin around him.

"That's a pretty wound. The name's Danel Sevor, 126th Longbow under Flargen." A soldier lying next to him said. Stef cracked a weary eye to view the soldier who had a blood-stained bandage wrapped around the top of his head.

"Stef Reimos, 50th Light Infantry." The sergeant murmured, still in mute shock.

"You alright? You lost a lot of blood there. The medic didn't think you were going to make it. But the guy that dragged you here was pretty insistent."

Stef turned his head to study the mess of the field hospital. There were no cot or blanket for the injured to lie on--just the soldiers' own cloaks spread over the dirt. The occasional field medics dashed around, and the smell of death and disinfectant was strong, almost overpowering. If it wasn't for the abnormally dry weather in the Blasted Lands, more than half would succumb to lethal infections. Stef then felt the devastating effects of months of hard march, sleep deprivation, undernourishment, and the heavy blood loss.

"I don't...Danel, how goes the battle?" Stef managed to say before lying back down, his head swimming.

"Wish I knew myself. Got taken out during the final wave. But they were some battles we had. I hear you were the ones who got us through those giant worms? I don't know what we would've done if you guys hadn't freed those Jumaras like you did. Probably die horribly.

"It was all confusion after we cracked through. But then, that was the last of the organized resistance, so it was just a matter of hacking through the faces that appeared in the fog. Those beasts were as lost and confused as we were in that soup. But when we came in sight of the wall, a Dreadlord leading a fist intercepted us. They caught us by surprise and nearly ended our march right then and there. But a knot of cavalry reinforcement stumbled on us then too and we quickly turned the tide.

"Then, I swear my heart almost stopped when I saw the Dreadlord raising an arm towards us, and most of us flinched back. I would never forget that image, for I knew that was the last sight I'd probably see. But, it was the oddest sight I've ever been a part to. The fire that left his fingers burned back and consumed his arm and pretty soon his entire body, like he lost control. We left his charred and twitching corpse smoking on the ground, and reached the broken gates.

"Then the next thing I knew, a sharp pain stabbed down on my head, and I woke up here..." Danel droned on.

Stef soon closed his eyes, drowning out the voices, the screams, and the din. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to glance into his father's eyes.

"Stef, I heard you were here." Jorj Reimos kneeled beside his son. This was the first he had visited his son since T’Eldrene Company had first arrived.

"Da… Jorj... why aren't you fighting...are you injured?"

"The battle's over." Jorj replied softly.

"Then...?" Stef struggled to remember what it meant.

"We have been recalled. Homeward bound."

"We were at the Gates. Why?" The last words trailed off in bitterness.

"As we have struck at the heart of the Shadow, have they struck at the heart of ours. I have heard that the generals acknowledge Manetheren's siege."

"Is this what we are left with? To leave with nothing? I gave my arm for...for nothing?"

"Stef, know that I am as proud of your courage as I am saddened by your sacrifice. But this is a case where my allegiance lies with the Generals. To continue here means perhaps the destruction of the Shadow threat, but it will also mean the destruction of the Mountain Home. The path leads unto mutual annihilation. That is not a path that we take. Call it patriotism, call it nationalism, or call it jingoism. It is the foundation of our beliefs. Certainly, in the annals of history, this might possibly be marked down as the greatest folly of Mankind, if it is not forgotten completely in the dust of time.

"I know that I will never convince you. But without trying, we lose the one thing we have fought for and will continue to fight for. Winning a war does not mean to have killed the enemy. Winning a war means to win the objective. Our objective is the preservation of our home. If we have destroyed the enemy and lost our goal, then we have still lost."

Stef listened to this silently; a dull feeling ached in his chest. He could not tell whether it was resentment, sadness, or acceptance. But it was a cold sensation, and it left him exhausted.

Jorj Reimos sighed, his eyes glistening. Then he removed a ring from the thong around his neck and placed it in Stef's hands.

"Here is the ring back, the ring of your mother. It has given me closure, but I think that you will need it more. To remember what you are fighting for." Jorj stood up and saluted, "For the Band of the Red Hand."

Stef felt the cool silver ring in his hands and finally closed it tightly in a fist. He heard his father leaving, heard the light snoring of the nearby Danel Sevor, 126th Longbow under Flargen. He heard the soft patter of wearied feet and the wind whistling over the rocks.

He slept like a man wearied of life.


	23. Walking Oblivion

"Burn it down. All of it." Arcanum barked to the engineer, "I'd rather die before I let the Trollocs claim them as their own."

"Aye sir." The engineer saluted and raised a hand up in signal.

Arcanum gazed up at the Three Idylls, now stripped and barren but of their old skeleton.  _ The weapon that broke the Gates of Night and shattered the walls of Shayol Ghul _ . Arcanum watched grimly as the soldiers tossed their oil-soaked torches onto the wooden frame, bathing the giants in flickering flames. They chewed up through their heights, until the three trebuchets were consumed in a towering inferno.

Arcanum smelled the heavy wood smoke mixing with the smoke of the burning corpses that lined the fields and gave a sad shake of his bushy head.  _ Valor _ broke first, tumbling down into hot ruins.  _ Liberty _ soon followed, leaving  _ Honor _ standing alone, before it too followed its sisters into the ashes of death.

"General, sir. Thunder Legion has finished preparing for departure." Captain Blake saluted, his eyes following the descent of the last joist of  _ Honor _ .

"Then we will leave this cursed place and dear hope that we are not too late."

"It is my duty to inform you that there has been some trouble with looting among the ranks."

"Looting?" Arcanum scratched his beard, "Trollocs have nothing worth to loot. Unless you speak of looting our own slain."

"No, sir. There have been glittering items reported on the bodies of the Shadowspawns. Fights have even begun to break out." Blake spat on the ground.

Arcanum felt shivers creep up his spine. There was something he should remember...something he should know. It was important; fragments of thought echoed in his mind, but he could not pull comprehension together. He was interrupted from his reverie by an aide saluting on arrival.

"Sir, perimeter is reporting that...I do not know how to put this, that the valley’s fog is moving." The soldier cleared his throat nervously and tugged at his ear.

"Moving?" Arcanum felt his skin prickling and itching, as if ants were crawling across his scalp.

"It's expanding, sir. At Zephyr Hawk-that is the closest camp to  _ Thakan'dar _ -the fog has already reached knee high. And still rising."

"Something's happening. Something dire and unprepared for," Arcanum turned slowly to gaze up at the tall visage of Shayol Ghul. The spire must have jogged his thought, because he finally found the words he was looking for, "the Horatica Horrors." The fairy story had chilled Arcanum to the bone as a child, and it still chilled him as an adult when he found out the Horrors had in fact happened. When it was finally ended, twelve villages of infected men, women, and children had to be razed to the ground, along with two companies of soldiers that had brought it to them.

Knowing he had to make a decision—the right decision-and make it fast, Arcanum turned back to Blake, "All soldiers seen looting from the corpses of Trollocs must and will be hung, and their bodies burnt until nothing of the flesh remains. Any looted items will be burned in the hottest fire and buried deep, take care to never make physical touch. If Cathon has problems with this order, he can take it up with me. The latter business I will take up with the Marshal General myself. Have you seen Cathon?"

"I am right here, Diest," Cathon announced himself, glancing casually at the burnt skeleton of Honor. Trailing behind him was the dark-haired Airena, who seemed to have recovered from her earlier ordeal, and the specter of a Warder.

"We must leave now. Most of the preparations for departure have been finished. Anything that is not ready will be left behind." Arcanum pronounced. There seemed to be an awkwardness between the two generals since the fateful meeting in Thakan'dar, but neither man seemed willing to acknowledge it.

"It is nearly night and the journey will be hazardous."

"You must be aware that  _ Thakan'dar _ is moving to consume the camps, and I suspect this entire siege was a bullied lamb to lead us to our doom. And to allow Ba’alzamon to strike at our heart."

"I agree that we must leave now. The essence of our momentum has been lost and He recovers and prepares its strike back. We must leave, indeed. Or not leave at all."

"And do you agree that your plan was in folly?"

Cathon met Arcanum's gaze with steady eyes, "By now, the walls of Shayol Ghul would have been tumbled into its tomb, and its denizens laid to their unholy demise. But I will not banter with you of what could have been. We will leave. I have already given the general command. And I will finish by saying that I agree with your decisions regarding looters. Nothing must be taken from the soil of  _ Thakan'dar _ , nothing that glitters, nothing gold, unless we want a repeat of Horatica."

"Then let us cease this argument. I cannot wait to leave."

"One more thing." Cathon raised his voice over the noise of soldiers moving into march formations, "Airena tells me of a means to hurry our journey home."

Airena returned Arcanum's skeptical glance with an unflinching gaze, "Yes, I know of a shortcut-if one can say such of it. I make no promises but this cannot hurt, as it seems that with the months—if not years-required for a hard march to reach Manetheren, whatever will happen will have happened anyways."

"And what is this  _ shortcut _ ?" Arcanum grumbled impatiently, his eyes studying his Legion's final movements.

"The Ways." Airena pronounced her answer solemnly as if it was of large merit.

"Would you like to explain, Aes Sedai, or perhaps you would like to continue throwing out nonsense words. If the latter, I have my legion to attend to." Arcanum turned to leave, but was stopped by Airena who stayed his shoulder with a surprisingly powerful grip.

Her green irises pierced deep into Arcanum's eyes, "During the Breaking when the Male Channelers were crazed by the taint of the Dark One's counterstrike, a few of these men took shelter in Ogier Steddings, whose properties allowed them to live relatively taint-free. And in payment, they took the mythical Talisman of Growing and created Waygates at the perimeter of many Steddings. The Ways connected each of these Gates, forming a world above, below, within, and without this World we live in. Time is different in the Ways, bent and distorted, and so is distance. The Ogiers have used these passages since the Breaking to travel between steddings, to make a journey of a day from what once was a trek of a month."

"With all due respect, Aes Sedai, I get enough of my fairy tales from Lawe here. Might as well stop by the Eye of the World."

" _ I _ have traveled in the Ways, General. It very much exists, a treasured heirloom kept by the Ogier, but the privilege given out to a select few. Aes Sedai are always welcome and respected, and I can navigate the Ways quite readily."

"Assuming for the moment that you are correct, Aes Sedai, which I will acquiesce to you. If a Waygate exists at every Stedding, then we have an exit close to Victa Manetheren, but we are in the middle of the Blasted Lands. How far must we travel to reach a supposed entrance?"

"If my memory serves me correctly, then Sherandu-one of the rare bastions left in the Blight-is forty leagues due south of us, and the Ogier Council will no doubt allow the Band passage through their Waygate if they are appraised of the quandary you and Manetheren are in."

"I hope you are correct, Aes Sedai." Arcanum grudgingly accepted the wisdom in Airena's words. If it works, then they might reach Manetheren in time. If it didn't, many will suffer.

"We set hard march to Sherandu, Diest," Cathon finally spoke, and motioning to two soldiers leading horses, "Mount quickly and ride with me. I fear we might be too late in our trek."

Arcanum noticed then the fog carpeting the ground, creeping and billowing from its source. He nodded grimly and leaped up the side of the offered gelding. He quickly followed behind Cathon, riding towards the head of the soldiers.

The Band of Red Hand reacted quickly, as each soldier was spurred into action, perhaps impelled by some personal demons or the encroaching fog. Airena rode before the generals, her eyes staring oddly out into the distance. Warder jogged his steed heavily by her side, scanning the horizons of the wasteland.

Yet as they journeyed farther from the spire of Shayol Ghul, they could not leave the fog behind. To the contrary, the fog increased in height and thickness, its progress almost imperceptible, but its result readily apparent. Soon, the fog rose as high over their heads as it had in  _ Thakan'dar _ , and visibility was reduced to almost nothing.

The men had walked in brooding silence, but now mutters and whispers cascaded through the ranks like a worm chewing through the Band's collective mettle. There was a tangible hesitation and fear creeping into the blinded troops, as if soaked into the skin from the cold dead wall that surrounded them.

Arcanum rubbed his Shell of Caldazar uneasily, glad to some extent of its partial protection against the fog. Like a wild but intelligent animal, the fog avoided all wearers of the Shell, creating a small aura of clarity. Not afforded with such protection, Airena had to deal with the fog in her own way, first with a shimmering ball of light that floated gently before her to illuminate her path. But soon even that became useless as the fog appeared to thicken and darken. Cathon had offered her the Shell of the late Jot Diadrem, which she refused at first, but eventually relented in the face of the fog's darkness, receiving it as if it was a slimy and repulsing toad from the look on her face.

And the Band tramped on in growing restlessness, through an endless haze to an unknown destination. Then the noises begin.

Arcanum dismissed them at first, as the shifting and creaking of saddles, or the distorted muffles of palaver, or even the howl of wind over the many cracks in the ground. But it grew incessant and louder, grating on his nerves like an itch that cannot be scratched.

"It sounds like singing." Arcanum remarked, to quiet his own nerves. The generals were riding almost touching horses, in order to be able to see each other.

"Whispering." Vader added, patting the tense neck of his horse.

"Should we send scouts out?"

"No." Cathon immediately answered, "I have no doubts that any man who leaves the press of his fellow soldiers will never be found again. If something is out there, there is nothing we can do but wait. Patiently or otherwise."

"We are within a half day's march within Sherandu." Airena reined her horse closer, "Once we reach the safety of the stedding, we should be safe from anything that hails from the Blasted Lands. Though I do confess that this fog is greatly disorienting me."

"Then I pray that you lead us out with all the powers at your disposal. Or I fear that we may be trapped inside this fog forever." Cathon glanced at the fog, as if studying something afar.

That same fear was paramount on every mind of every soldier. That the Band was traveling in circles or frozen in a massive spell to wander through the white nothingness for eternity. Or once they have left, they will discover the world has changed, that all have been lost. These apprehensions gnawed away as the men marched. The days and nights were drowned away in the same murky sea of white, punctuated only by meals until the food stores ran out on the second day. There was no time to sleep or rest, just a sheer desperation propelling them forward.

Arcanum felt that wild desperation stirring inside him as well. He could not tell how long they had been on the march to the mythical Waygate, but it felt to him that he had almost forgotten life beyond the fog. He heard the voices in the fog, and had even begun to see faces not a couple days ago. And the damned fog stayed. It made no sense. But it stayed. Arcanum could take pain, but not this...this numbness. Arcanum would not be surprised if this was what death was like. Have they died? There were always tales of the haunted battlefields where the ghosts of the slain walk and relive their battles from dusk to dawn, not realizing that they had passed away. Have their own mortal flames been snuffed, and now they are forced to shuffle the plains of afterlife as wraiths and ghosts?

The blade laid over his pommel felt real, but even the sheen of its folded Manetheren steel was dull in this land, as if the flicker of life was sucked away. Arcanum felt the reassuring hilt of his sword as he gazed out into the nether world of the fog. There was not a single sheathed sword in the Band. A weapon in hand gave the men some power, especially in circumstances where they were completely powerless. For the weary men, the sword was their insurance. For men have disappeared. Some fleeing into the fog, their minds finally cracking, while others simply vanished in midstride and mid-conversation. And then there were the drum beats in the distance. Some could hear it, others could not. Arcanum cocked his head to listen but only heard the soft whispers that had plagued them from Thakan'dar.

Then the fog was gone.

Arcanum flinched from the harsh light of the sun and spun his horse around. They stood upon a field of blackened and rotting land. He felt a faint tingle on his skin, but he may have imagined it. But there was no fog here, only ruin and decay. Behind them was a wall of wispy smog and men stumbling into the light, blinking up at the sky. Some shouted and clasped each other in subdued glee. Others simply collapsed bonelessly on the ground.

"This is not right." Airena leaped off her mare and kneeled on the ground, "This should be Sherandu. And...it  _ is _ Sherandu. But there's nothing here but death and decay."

"The Dark One is patient and his touch far-reaching. No fortress will hold out against him for long." Arcanum dismounted and touched the swampy ground with a cautious gauntlet, "Nothing left here. Let us find the Waygate and go."

"Yes, I suppose. It is...it is just such a shock. I was only here perhaps ten years past, and I can still remember the sphere of beauty inside the ravages of the Blasted Land. Perhaps it was just a silly sop-girl's wish to finally escape the ravages of war, if only for a few hours." Airena shook her head slightly, "But, I prattle on meaninglessly, when we should be departing. I can still recognize the land, and we are not far from the Waygate. But we must leave the limited protection of the Stedding and that means entering the fog once more."

"The fog is retreating." General Trystan suddenly interjected, pointing at where they had entered the Stedding.

Indeed, before their eyes, the fog that had plagued them for leagues pulled away, shrinking into the distance. But then, the fog was the least of their worries.

Down the vast barren land stood ranks upon ranks of Trollocs and Shadow Spawn, stretching far across the landscape, waiting just outside the unseen boundary. Their numbers were thick and their blackened blades were like branches in an ominous forest.

"Arms! To arms!" The recently celebrating men drew their swords once more, blinking their weakened eyes, and rocking on their unsteady feet, as if drunk by their imprisonment in the fog.

"Can they enter the Stedding?" Arcanum yelled over the din, yanking hard on his reigns to keep his gelding under control.

"Once, I would've said no. But something happened here." Airena neatly mounted her horse, "It looks like they are just standing beyond the barrier, but who knows if it will hold them indefinitely."

"They outnumber us by at least two times." Cathon called out. "We cannot move out to engage them, and they do not seem to be able to come in. A stalemate of some sort. At this moment. However, I do not wish to be a sitting duck in here. We must leave, even if we must bear the risk of leaving the Stedding."

"My thoughts exactly." Airena pulled off her borrowed medallion and tossed it to Cathon. Then she spun her horse and set off, yelling "FOLLOW ME! Those men who wish to live to see their land again, follow me!"

"You heard her!" Cathon echoed, and nearby soldiers quickly obeyed, until there was a liquid stream of men flowing after her. "Form and hold a perimeter around the Waygate!"

Arcanum spun his horse to reach his Legion, but also maintained a sharp eye on the surrounding host. The Trollocs howled and pounded their weapons together, but did not seem to step forth into the Stedding. A few thrown swords were exchanged between the two deadlocked opponents, and at least one Trolloc toppled, clutching a hilt in his throat. Then, the Band archers moved in, stitching the Horde's ranks with feathered pain. But the Trollocs responded quickly, raising heavy iron shields before them to create a wall against the now impotent arrows. This high level of tactics was something that Arcanum had never seen in the Trolloc Horde, and he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then something caught his eyes. Squads of brutish Trollocs were slowly making their way towards the Stedding, towing giant cauldron-like engines, with steam and smoke billowing out of the opening at the top. Arcanum counted nearly dozens of them from their tell-tale steam trails. Whatever they were, they were trouble.

When Arcanum finally reached the flanking units of his Legion, the sky wept fire. The earth shook as balls of flame struck heavily down. Men and horses were sent flying, and the earth rippled with the impacts. Arcanum was thrown off his horse by the shockwave, landing forcefully on his back. Arcanum fumbled back to his feet amidst the sudden increased movement of the panicked soldiers.

From his vantage point, Arcanum was stunned by the harbingers of their doom. Those numerous cauldron-engines were spewing out fireballs, spiraling and arching through the air, almost without rest. They pounded down among the ranks without mercy, filling the air with soot and sulfurous fumes. Where they landed, they splashed down liquid fire that could not be extinguished.

Thunder Legion attempted to answer back and cover for the Band's escape, but Arcanum's catapults were wholly unprepared and without any arsenals. Desperate men piled on all manners of scavenged items, from swords and shields to broken down pieces of wagons. One such loaded catapult fired, sending thousands of horseshoes hurling through the air. By sheer luck, they struck one of the cauldrons, and somehow managed to block the wide rim. Cracks began to spider web through its exterior, and frothy liquid sprayed out. Then the engine exploded into fragments, slicing through the Trolloc ranks like thousands of knives. But that was the only luck Thunder Legion could boast that day, as the rest of the cauldrons continued to bark their destruction unabated into the Stedding.

As Arcanum dove into the ground from a close hit by one of those machines, he was stunned at how the Trollocs could create such inferno engines. True, they had stolen many secrets, such as Manetheren steel, but these machines were outside anything of human ingenuity.

"Move out the cats!" Arcanum bellowed, clambering to his feet and seeing most of the Band were streaming towards the Stedding-border some distance away, "Our job here is done!"

His Legion responded quickly, retreating back towards the rest of the Band. Fireballs and debris scattered all around them, and screams and moans bloomed and were silenced.

"DIEST!" Arcanum looked to see a mounted Vader and a cadre of cavalry riding toward him, "Move your men quickly! We cannot hold the perimeter around the gate much longer! There will be a thousand paces between the boundary of the Stedding and the Waygate. You must shoot through the gauntlet! Arcanum, you must—"

Arcanum flinched and was crushed to the ground by the roar that swallowed Vader's voice. He felt searing heat crisp his eyebrows and chew at his face and upraised arms. He scrambled to his feet for what must have been the tenth time that day and gasped. A fireball had descended upon where Vader and his escorts had been, and had scattered and broken them like toy soldiers. The ground flickered with liquid flames, and the corpses began to disintegrate, leaving nothing to salvage.

Cursing, Arcanum stumbled towards the exit with the last batch of his surviving men and their catapults. They pushed out through the border of the Stedding and into the gap of battle. With no boundary here, Trollocs had poured in to battle the Band as they fought their way toward the Waygate. It was sheer chaos on all sides and Arcanum was almost disoriented by the fog of war. But as one unit, he and his Legion hacked their way through the roiling masses, and suddenly saw the burning white light that could only be the Gateway, surrounded by a shimmering dome. Then he cursed. The Waygate was not big enough to allow his catapults through.

"Cut off the catapults! Abandon them!" Arcanum shouted. The teams obeyed readily, dropping their lines to leave the precious engines mired in the mud. Arcanum hacked and hewed past until he reached a barricade that the defenders had erected out of abandoned wagons and carts. He began to slide through a small break in the barricade when a Trolloc face loomed before his own. Then the spawn gurgled and toppled over, revealing the blurred form of Warder, casting death all around the Waygate. Arcanum quickly backed into the tingly translucent sphere. Airena stood at the fore of the Gate, arms raised to hold up her small barrier as the last soldiers pushed in and funneled into the shimmering white portal.

"Vader, is he...?" Airena asked at his arrival, though her eyes were closed in concentration.

"Another casualty of war. Damn that stubborn bastard. Are we the last?"

"Go in." Arcanum obeyed, pushing into the bright pulsing entrance and felt himself stretching and bending as if in two places at once. Then he was through, stumbling into the back of the soldier who had entered before.

The first thing he noticed was the blue of the sky and the vibrant grass.

Airena entered and the Waygate slammed shut.


	24. Eternal Sunshine

They spent only one week in the Ways, a week that was the first respite that the Band of Red Hand had for a long time. With Airena guiding them, riding far in front to decipher the Ogier scripts on each guidestone, the journey was quick. Cathon often took to riding with Airena, more to distance himself from the marching men than any personal preference for her company. He was troubled by much on his mind, with his attention no longer occupied by battle.

Yet even so, it was difficult to focus on oneself when the terrain screamed to be noticed. There was a clamoring exuberance that made it difficult for him to concentrate. It was a pulsing energy—the almost indescribable but unforgettable energy of Spring. It was not only the essence of youth and rebirth, but something that is embedded in the very psyche of mankind. For spring, there is a smell, a memory, a sensation utterly inexpressible. It is the lushness, the exuberance, the essence of LIFE itself.

But it was also a paradox, for how could there be life in the midst of death, spring in the midst of winter? It seemed an impossibility. But then, what is all this greenness before his eyes. What can it be but the incarnate of eternal spring? Even now, Cathon, though having traveled this Wonderland for weeks, was still surprised by the sensation of spring all around him. He was a man who had spent fifteen years in the shadow of death and winter, and life seemed almost unrecognizable. But, that was not entirely true, for Cathon recognized spring like seeing a lost brother after a lifetime, and spring recognized him.

As he stared upon the vibrant blue sky and felt the cool wind swishing through his graying hair, he felt almost like a boy again. This was the wonders of the Earth that he had forgotten in his quest to slay and kill. But then he reminded himself that it was only a bottled essence of Spring. For in that blue sky, the sun always shone, and he knew that in this land of the Ways, there was no winter. An artificial spring. This was all a sham, like a plastered and frozen smile that does not touch the eyes. This was not the world, nor real life. This was a child's fantasy, and he was no longer a child.

But artificial or not, the men of the Band seemed to enjoy it. When they had first arrived in the Ways, they had been like blind men stumbling into the light and realizing that they could finally see. There was life after all! They greedily took in the sight, the soft grass, the odd gray-dust road with a striking white line running through the center. But the centerpieces of their attention were the fruit trees planted at the side of the roads, laden with treasures. Figs, apples, pears, apricots, and countless unnamed delicacies.

There was almost a mad stampede as the starved men scrabbled for the first real food they have seen in weeks. At the end of the first hour, the ground was pebbled with fruit mush and pulp, and most of the trees were barren of their loads, as if a swarm of locusts had descended.

But the trees aside, they were left mostly to their own devices in this green but lonely land. The men were rejuvenated and some even sang battle hymns, which once would have been suicide in the bitter cold North. Yet, Cathon knew they were still tired. And no matter how much they ate, they were still weak of energy. There was not a single man who did not have sunken cheeks or bagged eyes. Even so, Cathon could often hear the faint notes of "Midean's Ford" drifting from the Legions far behind, but the melody failed to stir his heart. While it was certainly true that the soldiers would not be winning any awards for their voices, it was not the lack of tone that irritated Cauthon.

"Midean's ford," He grumbled, "A hackneyed doggerel that makes men think with their hearts and not their brains."

"Yes, hard to believe that there are still those who believe in hope," Airena replied with an ironic tone, "But we have more important things. For one, we are not alone."

Cathon jerked his head up, and saw the group of massive shapes moving towards them. He bared two inches of steel before Airena held his hand. Then he raised his brows in recognition.

One of the large creatures raised a giant hand, and a deep voice rumbled. "Lo, Warsman, what brings you into the Ways!"

"Let me speak to him, Lawe." Airena murmured to Cathon, "I do not think he will be terribly happy having thousands of men trampling through their grass and trees. Let me handle it."

Cathon nodded his acquiescence and Airena rode up to meet the congregation.

The troupe of Ogiers stopped before them, and by standing alone loomed over the two mounted humans. At a distance, a man might confuse the sight of Ogiers with Trollocs with embarrassing results. But, size was the only characteristic they held in common. While Trollocs thirsted for war and death, Ogiers were the tenders of peace and life, as well seen in the paradise of the Ways. They were amiable, careful, and intelligent creatures, and now their large dish-sized eyes were focused on the two newest creatures of the Ways.

Then the Ogier who had spoken whom Cathon presumed to be the leader saw Airena and a broad smile stretched across his face, "Ah, Mistress Aes Sedai. You are always welcome here. And I see that your friend is a warsman of Manetheren. I am Halan son of Nadin son of Hasan, Elder of Stedding Shangtai. There is a meeting called, and that is our destination. If we were heading the same way, we would be quite happy to invite you into our company. But pardon my curiosity, what brings you two here? Is there something amiss in Manetheren?"

"Elder Halan, greetings from the White Tower. I am Airena Andalusa, Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, and this warsman with me is Marshal-General Cathon of the Band of Red Hand."

"Truly? We have heard of some of your exploits." The Ogier rumbled. Cathon was dubious of Halan's familiarity with the Band. Ogiers were relatively safe behind their Steddings against the ravages of the Trolloc Wars, and probably to them, seemed irrelevant to their lives.

Airena quickly continued, "Elder Halan, we have entered the Ways because of dire need. We have received word that Manetheren and the Grove is under heavy assault from the Leafburner's Horde. And the Ways were the only possible route in which the General and his Grand-Legion may reach there in time."

"Manetheren under attack?" Halan looked troubled, and there were whispers exchanged between the Ogiers, like the rumblings of a deep birdsong, tickling Cathon's ears. "This is not good. Not good at all, I am afraid. But I see that your need is indeed great, and I wish you speedy return to Manetheren." Halan was silent for a moment. "I will tell you this, but I cannot promise anything. At the meeting, I will try to convince my people to send aid. But, as you must know, we are not a hasty people, and decisions are not easily made." He sighed, a bumblebee rumble. "It is a beautiful city and a beautiful grove, and I cannot bear to see them lost to the Leafblighter. We will try. We will try."

"My eternal gratitudes." Cathon finally spoke, "But we must be moving. I can hear my legions closing up behind us."

"Yes, yes. But of course." Halan nodded, "I pray you make it on time. No, I  _ know _ you will make it on time."

"Elder Halan." Airena added as the Ogier troupe was departing and placed something in the Ogier's giant hand, "I have more bad news. Sherandu is no more. The veil of shadows has set on it."

"Yes, we have heard already. A terrible, terrible loss. I fear for us all." Halan murmured sadly into the wind. He glanced at the two  _ Avendesora _ -shaped Way keys that Airena had given him, "I hate to see a Waygate destroyed, but I understand that it must be done."

Then the two groups parted ways, each staring bleakly at the future.

Cathon realized then that everyone had lost something in the war. There were none who escaped the ravages, not even those whose homes are bar to the Shadow. For the Ogiers, safety had been snatched away from them, and perhaps now they realized that they must strike back. For Cathon, it was his men that were lost—his people, his blood. There was the recent loss of Vader, the man who had become the Bastion and the solid leader and commander of the oldest Manetheren legion. He was older than Cathon, though Vader liked to keep his age a secret. And he was the father and the mentor, and certainly well-respected, if not exactly well-liked, by the men. And in the end, it took the fires of heaven to subdue the Bastion. Not even a Shell of Caldazar could keep him from his fate, to die in the flames of glory.

And then there was Jot Diadrem, who would be called an idealist in another time and place. The General who was at one with his men, who refused the Shell of Caldazar, saying "And I will not go into battle knowing that I am at less risk than they are. I ask the same of them that I ask of myself. I cannot." And who is to say that he was wrong? Perhaps the  _ Timari _ provided no more protection than confidence, and Diadrem was already infused with it.

Cathon almost felt envious of Vader and Diadrem and Hill and the countless nameless thousands that had fallen. They had served and died for their country, with no responsibility or duty to drag them through the world of life. But, what does the future hold for him? Perhaps court-marshaled or, more likely, death with the Band slipping from his grasp. Caldazar certainly didn't save Vader, and it is quite conceivable that it isn't certainly going to help him. Such thoughts plagued him from his arrival in the Ways, and his moods became darker and fouler. He didn't understand why. It was a mental trap that green commanders fell for, after their first battle. But burn it if the black temper clung to him like an itch that he just can't scratch, a bloody burning itch.

The worst part was he couldn't keep the bitterness to himself, and he lashed out. Nathen Austern used to bring him reports on the Legion, until Cathon bit his head off for bothering him. The other Generals avoided him like the blood plagues, and even the men themselves became quiet whenever Cathon passed them. Airena was the only one who seemed to stand him, though Cathon often caught her studying him with her bloody Aes Sedai looks. Yet for some reason, he did not seem to mind her presence, no matter how much she seems to get under his skin.

"What are you thinking about? What have you been thinking about all this time while you snarl to yourself and stare sullenly like a punished child." Airena's voice broke his reverie.

"Me? The scattered thoughts of a failed man." Cathon muttered, "How I have sat at the edge of victory, only to stand in the abyss of ruins. How I am utterly alone in this paradise."

"How can you call yourself alone when your men love you? When they would dearly lay their life down for you."

"Exactly. You say that they would die for me. But then it is unrequited friendship, for who would send their friends out to their deaths? No, there is no room in my life for love or friends. When I had met my compatriot of the North, Nonoc Bashere, he had told me, 'You can lead your men, or you can weep for the dead, but you cannot do both.' And I chose the first. And I can weep for no man. And none will weep for me. But why am I telling you this?" Cathon shut his mouth.

"It is a harsh way of living." Airena watched Cathon with her penetrating eyes. That wretched woman was always trying to crack his shell, trying to probe into his core, and dredging up his emotions. Well, she is free to them!

"Well, we live in a harsh world," Cathon growled, "Have you not seen this with your eyes? There is no safety, no room for hope or useless emotions. No crusades or causes. We live by the sword and we die by the sword. There is NOTHING but the sword; it is the end-all."

"I refuse to believe that.  _ You _ refused to believe that! 'There is always hope.' You were the one who told me that. That is what makes us human."

"Well, there is no hope for me. And I was wrong. The Cathon you knew is dead." Cathon did not feel like talking anymore. He didn't ride up here to talk. He wanted some bloody room to clear out his attic, but the fool woman wouldn't keep silent. He nudged his horse to a faster trot, but Airena stubbornly kept up.

"Lawe, look at me! Lawe! You cannot give up now, not when you are needed. Not when your men need you. Not when humanity needs you. Damn it, even I need you."

"Where's Warder?" Maybe he could change the subject.

She ignored the question, "Lawe, you are acting like a...like a...fool of a man! The Light burn it! Bury the past and see the present!"

"Bury the past like all those unmarked graves in the North. The thousands of men who died in a fool's crusade?" Cathon roared, "I am like a man who stood before the destruction of a city, thinking it was the enemy's, until he realized it was his own! THE LIGHT TAKE IT! I GIVE UP! They have me on my knees, the Creator, Fate, and bloody Caldazar!"

"Then you really are dead." Airena spoke in her infuriatingly calm voice. "Perhaps I was wrong about you."

"WHY DO YOU CARE? You know nothing of me, Airena!" Cathon seized the reins of her horse, stopping both horses in mid-trot. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close so they were staring face to face. He whispered hoarsely, "Nothing. I  _ am _ a General like my father before me. I thought I could be different, that I could break free of this damned vicious cycle. My father died a bitter, bitter man, fighting a war he grew to loath more than death itself. He was a fool too, who believed that there is an end in sight, but he was broken by his own bloody dignity. You know nothing about me. Forget me for I am lost." Cathon repeated himself, glancing away from her, as if drowning in memories.

"I know nothing?" Airena grasped him by the crest of his cloak and pulled him closer until their noses almost touched. Her eyes loomed large and clear. There was a quiver in her normally serene voice, "You want to know what I know? I know about your family, your father, your mentor, and your past. But, most importantly, I know  _ you _ . More than you know yourself. I  _ know _ that you are a man with an unfinished destiny, a man that does not have his flame easily extinguished. I remember a brash but fiery man who dared to take on the Dark One himself. I know that you rile against your fortunes. I know that you are mired in your own doubts and guilt. But, I also know that it is  _ not _ over for you. Though Shayol Ghul still stands, you--YOU--will help bring it to its knees. It may not be in this Turning of the Wheel, but trust me--TRUST ME-- when I say that you will be there at its end.

And for a moment, her voice softened, that for one moment she was vulnerable, as she whispered, "I know all this. And I know that I love you, you damned fool of a man."

Her eyes were wet, but she stared at him defiantly through her tears. Cathon felt like he was pierced by a lance of fire, his mind reeling in shock. At her words, at their meanings.

He acted without thinking, drew her in and kissed her hard, and she returned it willfully.

Then she pulled away, her eyes wide, "And I know that I shouldn't have done that." Her eyes flashed through her tears, but they softened for just a moment, almost pleading. "We cannot speak of this. Not now. I am sorry I did that."

"Airena…." Cathon managed to find his voice.

Airena shook her head fiercely, and clenched his hands tightly in her own, then released them, and rode away at a canter. Though her eyes were red and her cheek was streaked with tears, she sat as if nothing had happened, looking like a regal queen above the world.

Cathon sat there by himself, emotions rolling through his mind. No longer did he feel the black void eating him from inside. No, it was replaced by…by…what exactly?  _ What was he doing? She's an Aes Sedai! Better to kiss a viper! Come to your senses! An Aes Sedai! And I do love her back. Burn him for a fool! _


	25. Homecoming

To Stef Reimos, the journey from Shayol Ghul was a blur in his memory. Immersed in the fog of delusions and fever, it was like a dizzy dream where nothing was in focus. Like the rest of the invalids and those too weak to walk, he was at first carried in the wagons, until the vehicles were abandoned at the Waygate in the Blight, or whatever they called that blinding portal which he had stumbled through on the shoulder of another.

Without the wagons, the Band had to share the dwindling supply of horses among the wounded and dying. The crippled and near-death had first call, while others like Stef had to stumble part of the way, his head swimming and his muscles cramping up. In his daze, the Ways was like a soft breeze felt through a thick layer of wool. There was something there, but there was a wall of haze between them.

He remembered eating fruits, divine to the taste, but his stomach clenched up in protest at the sudden unusual diet. As a result, he had spent the majority of the non-marching hours perched on the edge of the walkways, retching into the blue void. Then tottering back as vertigo almost sent him toppling into the eerie nothingness. Stef had a feeling that if he fell over, he would be spinning through the serene abyss for the rest of eternity.

But he survived and grew stronger as he held down more food, his stomach growing accustomed to the new diet. But, others didn't. There were many who were too far gone in their wounds. It was the policy of the Band that no one living is left behind, not if they can take a breath. And as a result, any perched on the brink of death was carried towards home. And despite the best wishes and will, most of them died, and were buried under the fruit trees, holding vigil over the future travelers who would pass through this strange land and whispering their last requests into the wind.

So it was in his cloudy but stable condition that Stef approached the final Waygate, the portal that would take them all home. Home, at last.

There was a rustling uneasiness among the men. Many of them had not been home in decades. Behind that door could be their long-last friends, families, and loves. But behind it could also be the ruins of Manetheren and the very vision of despair itself.

But there was no hesitation. The men poured through, and Stef was drawn with the flow, the white glow surrounding him and stretching him through the passage of time and space. A deafening ringing sounded in the ear and blackness suddenly exploded into the white.

Then he stumbled into the night to the sound of cries and clash of swords. Stars danced in his eyes, blinding him, but the sound of battle was unmistakable. Stef fumbled for his sword, and tried to draw a sword that was not there, with a hand that was not there. He was forced forward by the press of men behind him, and he tried to take a step—a step that did not touch the ground where he expected it to be. He stumbled, and rolled down some distance on the rocky incline upon which the Waygate sat, scraping his face and arms. A hand reached down, grabbed his collar and yanked him up to his feet. He finally shrugged his sword from its new position on his left side with his good hand, holding it awkwardly before him. He had never held a sword in his right hand before, but he had better learn. And quickly.

A sudden motion in front of him prompted him to raise his sword defensively. The blow that came nearly took his sword off, along with his head. The face of the Trolloc came into focus for a second, before nausea claimed his vision. He fought a desperate retreat, backing up as fast as he physically could, only reflex and training keeping him alive.

Then two red blurs rushed past him and the pressure was suddenly off. A gurgle and the Trolloc crumpled to the ground. Red cloaks were all around, and suddenly it was all over, almost before it even began.

Stef leaned on his sword unsteadily, his hair sticking damply to his head with sweat. He glanced at the corpses of the Shadowspawn lying on the ground, and the various rotting blankets on the ground. A giant cauldron was hanging beside him, on a makeshift frame, before a tight-lipped soldier tipped out the contents to drain its evil content into the rocky soil.  _ A Trolloc camp. Perhaps a fist or two _ . They had poured out of the Waygate into the surprised and unprepared Trolloc, and slaughtered them, quick and efficient.

"Sergeant? You alright?" He felt a hand on his clammy shoulder. "It's me, Cordin. That was a nasty fall. You might want to get those cuts looked at." The voice came as if from a far distance.

"I just need. Rest. Can you. Get my water skin?" Stef fumbled with the clip on his belt.

"Yeah sure." Cordin unclipped the skin and quickly snapped the top off. Stef held out his unsteady hand as the young soldier poured the flat water into it. Stef splashed his face with the flat water, feeling the sting of the cuts on his face. He glanced down at his wet, red hand and let his arm drop limp.

"I…" But before he could finish his sentence, exhaustion suddenly drilled into every single muscle of his body. Stef would have toppled to the rock ground right then, if Cordin had not caught him. Stef sensed rather than felt Cordin drape his limp arm across his shoulders and carry him some distance, and laid him on a hard surface that creaked under his weight.

"You there, sarge?" Cordin studied his face, "We scavenged up some of the Trolloc wagons. You'll have to share this with some others though."

"Yeah. No problem. Just tired." Stef closed his eyes, and was enveloped in a feverish dream that must have carried him through several days. He seemed to have relapsed into his earlier state. He was awakened only for occasional meals, spending most of the journey towards the city of Manetheren in a clammy stupor.

He remembered only pieces of that last few leagues, like still images that flashed into his mind. He remembered the dawning sun shining across his face, waking him from a restless sleep. He remembered seeing a massive iron gate, forged with both beauty and utility, slowly opening with a deep groan that resonated through the air. There was a cheer that started like a murmuring brook that increased in intensity until the roar shook the earth, and birds took to the sky in fright. A small smile crept onto his face. They were home. They were finally home. As he felt sleep take him again, he clenched his hands possessively around the silver ring that now again hung from his neck.

When he woke, the headache was gone and he could glance at the room he was in without the walls and ceiling moving around him. He was on a pallet, of which many were lined in a row, filled with many others. He sat up and removed his blanket, and saw that someone had stripped him of his clothes, and replaced it with clean cotton trousers and undershirt. Then he saw the ring was still safely fastened to the thong around his neck, and gave a sigh of relief. His cloak hung on a hook above his pallet, looking almost new, washed and pressed.

"I must've been out for days." Stef’s stomach gurgled in agreement, and for the first time, he felt hunger instead of nausea. He swung his legs to the side of the pallet to stand up, quickly dressing in the folded shirt set out for him and carefully setting the red cloak on his shoulder. There was finality in the closing of the clasps, echoing slightly in the cavernous room that housed the wounded. He didn't know how long he had been out, but he had to find the Band. And maybe grab a bite to eat. His stomach grumbled. Well, a couple bites.

"Returnin' to war again so soon?" Stef froze and turned to see in the neighboring pallet an old man, covered to his wispy chin by his blanket. He looked ancient, his face a maze of wrinkles and lines, his hair all white and radiating from his head like a crown. But, what drew Stef’s breath away were the eyes. They were the eyes of a blind man; the pupils were the lightest blue before white. But they almost appeared to focus on Stef’s face, their milk haze delving into his soul. "Too busy to talk to an old man?"

Stef had to tear his eyes away from those blind orbs. His eyes lit on the hook above the man's bed and saw the faded red cloak with black etchings of a veteran. "I am sorry to have bothered your rest, Learned One."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" The man grinned wide, showing his two remaining, yellow teeth, "When you're as old as me, you can't be bothered by much, though give me my daily mush and a pot to piss in and I'm right as rain. Though I ain't regular as rain, but I hardly need to be filling your young head with such when you need to be using it for what you be using it for."

The sergeant's head swam with the flood of words pouring out of the old man. I guess he doesn't get visitors often, Stef realized. He talked like a nomad who had finally met a fellow man. Or perhaps all old people talk like this. He didn't know, there were few who survived the war to live to a ripe age.

"Learned One, do you know where we are?" Stef also wondered what the old man was doing in the midst of the new wounded, but he wasn't quite ready to break etiquette.

"You are in the Royal Palace. The zenith of civilization." The man kept grinning his toothless mile, "In the Healers Quarters to be precise. And to why, I expect probably because of that pretty scar you have on your arm there." To this Stef froze and stared into those milky eyes. "No need to act like a bullied sheep. I may be blind, aye, but there are more ways to look at this world then through the eyes. Perhaps…" Those eyes seem to suddenly focus on Stef with clarity, and the grin was gone. "Perhaps what you see with your eyes is not really there, but in reality, there is something there that cannot be seen. You see blue, but he sees green, and you both call it yellow. You see? Sight is an imperfect instrument, and perhaps it is good that I am free from its encumbrance. One truly cannot notice something until it is gone." A boney and pale hand slithered out from under the blanket and gently touched the stump of Stef’s arm. The sergeant flinched and jerked away.

"A gift of war." The old man whispered, "We have both left a piece behind and paid a price. Tell me, who is the Marshall-General now?"

"First Lord Cathon." Stef croaked out.

"Cauthon?" He gave the name a country twang. 

"Cathon. Lawe Cathon."

"Cathon…Cathon. Does not ring a bell, but then my memory ain't what it used to be. I served with Lord Prodis, you know. Or perhaps you don't know. An arrogant man, but I guess all Lords and Ladies and Barons and Dukes are, though one wouldn't expect it, having them lug their heavy names and titles and entourages around. I suspect that things are quite different from when I served, young sergeant. That is the truth. You know this is the first time that the Band of Red Hand has returned to Manetheren in forty years. It is lonely in the North, is it not? But perhaps..." The old man coughed into his blanket. "Excuse me. Perhaps we will know true loneliness."

He was silent for a moment, "You know where I lost my eyes, son? In Aridhol, no no, not in that cursed city—that was before my time-but fighting for that blasted country. It was a dreadlord who sewed fire into my regiment. A very...special Dreadlord he was. Special in that I once knew and served him before he turned. Ah, you know who I’m talking bout. But, I digress. I did not know how I survived. I still don't. I just know that the fire that engulfed us was the last thing and the only thing that I will see. And I can still see the flames flickering before my eyes as we talk. Flicker flicker flicker.

"And I was discharged and sent home. Discharged. What a funny name for that word. You don't really hear that word much anymore. It is an extinct animal, sometimes remembered in the back of some old man's head. Aye it is, I bet you have never heard of it. No, there is no longer a discharge. It is death now. A close friend he is, this fell sergeant Death, who is strict in his arrest. And that sergeant is a fairer end. Look at me, who was given that animal of discharge, who came home to lie in a bed. That is it, until I die. And I can see death now. You see, sergeants like to stick together. Stick together. And I see Death following you. And you follow Death." His grin stretched the skin tight on his face like a fleshless and somewhat wrinkled skull.

"Death?" Stef muttered. The old man seems to be in quite a stage of advanced senility, but there was some hypnotic power in those eyes that seem to freeze Stef to the spot. There was insanity in that pale blue, but there was also knowledge. In those blind eyes was the sadness that bound two soldiers of two different generations of the same war. "If death be what follows me, then be it. For I am a soldier. It is my calling and I accept it."

"We are soldiers." The nameless old man echoed, but his voice grew soft and his eyes closed, his voice fell to a dull wheeze, as if it was torture for him to breathe, "And from one soldier to another, one generation to another, I will give you a message. Listen and listen carefully to the blind man who can see. You live in a reality where nothing is what meets the eye. Everything you know is wrong. Everyone you see is false. Betrayal will come from the most trusted. The dead will rise and the living will eat dirt. Death will come to those who are victorious." The last word was an almost inaudible sigh that Stef had to lean close to hear. Then those eyes closed forever, for they were the last of a generation.

"So is Ol' Sanus ready for his dinner? Or still gabbling his old yarns to you?" A nurse appeared by Stef. But when she took one look at the old man's lifeless visage, she quickly seized the pale arm that had gone limp. Then feeling no pulse, she shook her head and slowly folded it over his chest. Then she gravely folded the blanket over the blind man's head.

"Did you know… Ol' Sanus well?" Stef uttered.

"Aye, he has been in my care for some time now. It's really a pity. We knew his time was approaching. He knew his time was coming. He was such a cheerful man and born to talk, of course. He had been a servant in the Palace since, well, long before I was born. But, he was such a lonely man. War was all he knew, and when he came back. Well, he hadn't married and then he was too old . No wife, no children." The nurse shook her head again. "Well, how may I help you, sir? It looks like you're all packed there, ready to leave. You certainly look better than when they brought you in here."

"Aye, I have been bedridden since...I don't remember when." Stef smiled at the nurse, who was certainly pleasant to look at, with large pretty eyes, blue like the sky, and an almost impish nose. She wore clean cotton scrubs over a light brown dress, and her auburn hair was wrapped and pinned with a white ribbon. "And I am rather hungry, but I really would like to see how my men are holding up."

"Oh, most of the Band is housed in the Central Barracks just outside the Palace. But, I hear that in the morning, they are setting out for the Tarandrelle. So, are you an officer then?"

"No, milady-"

"Zira will do."

"Stef Reimos." He shook her offered hands. "I'm just a sergeant." Just a sergeant. Like Ol' Sanus

"Well, Sergeant Stef Reimos. I can't stop you from leaving. Just take it easy then. Perhaps we'll meet again sometimes." She winked at him.

"Perhaps, Zira. I would like that." In fact, it was Stef’s strongest desire. He had not been with a woman in ages, but duty was stronger than any desire he had. "I would like that a lot."

He thanked her for her care, though he didn't remember, and shrugged on his pack. He had a duty. As Stef left the Quarters, he was troubled by the voice of Sanus. He muttered the old soldier's dying words again, "What I know is wrong. What I see is false. Betrayal will come from the most trusted." What did it mean? Who will be betrayed and who will do the betraying? "The dead will rise and the living will eat dirt." Was it just the ravings of a dying man? But is it not said that the dying can see the future, for they are in that thin veil between two worlds. "Death will come to the victorious."

Even in the warmth of the Manetheren Palace, Stef shivered.


	26. The Approaching Storm

"Is this all we have?" Arcanum stared at the rows of glistening and polished catapults lined up in front of the Eastern Courtyard.

"One-hundred and forty-four of our remaining stock." Engineering Corp Chief Asa Tirium pulled out a notebook and nudged his spectacles with an oil-stained finger. "Olgier Grove timber, at least what is left. You know that they burned it down?"

"We came through that way, but we didn't see anything at night. Although the smell in the air was terrible." Arcanum touched the smooth carapace of the closest catapult. "You made some changes."

"Ten years is a very long time." Tirium tapped the curved arm of the catapult, "Steel exoskeleton, reinforced struts, and an overhauled winch system. My pride and joy, the best that Manetheren can offer." He eyed Arcanum through his specs like an owl, "And you'll need it. And it might not be enough. These are straight from the shop, built on rush order, and entirely untested in battle."

"My men will pick these up tonight, Asa, and I think-" Before Arcanum could finish, the ground shook underneath their feet, and pieces of the Palace wall showered the ground from above.

"Bloody probe attacks are getting more and more frequent." Tirium dusted off his shirt and picked up his notebook. "They've been testing our defenses for months. The Aes Sedai are shielding us pretty well, though I've been hearing rumors that they're leaving to-morrow. Nasty pieces of news, if true."

"How many Dreadlords?"

"Six plus the Traitor." Tirium adjusted his spectacles, "With the exceptions of these hit-and-runs, they mostly stick to the opposite side of the Tarendelle."

"Seven. Aren't we lucky?" Arcanum breathed out. One was bad enough. The most he had ever fought before were three at Tourak's Peak, and the Band barely limped out, an experience Arcanum never wanted to repeat. But seven? Arcanum could not imagine the aftermath of the devastation.

"So this is why we cannot fight them here." Arcanum realized. "We cannot defend Manetheren while perched on its walls. With seven Dreadlords in view of the city, they would tear us to pieces. We must not let the Horde get within sight."

"You are right. We have learned a painful lesson. They did that at Shanaine--tearing down the city, defenders and all. We had two Aes Sedai but it wasn't enough. The survivors thought the world was ending, and who is to say that they were wrong? The ground split, and the walls toppled as if they were children's block toys. That cannot happen here with the thousands upon thousands of women and children huddling below what is essentially paper-thin roofs." He made a grimace. "I was there, you know. Me and the entire fleet of veteran and hardened cats. Three-hundred crews of our best and brightest, ready to throw back the entire tide. And before even one shot was fired, the ground was rent, and the entire Manetheren fleet was swallowed by the Earth." He paused, lost in thought. "I was buried in that rubble for three days. I could barely hear the din of battle around me--above me--as the Horde savaged through the broken city, laying waste to the survivors. Then, even that faded away, and I was trapped in silence, wondering when I would die or, better yet, if I was dead. On the third day, I heard voices above me, faint but human, and I called out with my remaining strength. Then the debris above me shifted and rustled and sunlight stabbed into my eyes, and I felt fresh air fill my dust-choked lungs once more. I was dug up by the Grand-Legion of the Tarendrelle, scouring the wreckage for survivors. It was three long days that I never wish to relive. The Horde has passed on, of course. We were-we were like an insect that thought itself safe in its armor, until a giant cracked open the shell and plucked out the flesh, leaving a hollow carcass drying in the sun. We were just something that was in the way."

The engineer chief then upended a wineskin in his mouth, and offered it to Arcanum. The general drank from it and tossed it back. The engineer caught it and gazed up at the sky, and tried to lighten the tone, "Almoren Red. I bet you boys never got anything like that up in the North."

"No we didn't." Arcanum agreed, and sat down on the chassis of the catapult.

"Well, that was when we realized that we were sadly out of our league. We could chisel slowly away at them with hit-and-run, but would not make any noticeable difference before the Horde reached Victa Manetheren. That was the precise moment. That was when Aemon sent a cadre of the strongest of his own Heart Guard on the swiftest blood stallions. It was a gamble, but if we were going to stare our own doom in the eyes, then we need every man we can find, especially the illustrious Band of the Red Hand."

Raindrops begin to fall from the sky, drumming softy against the paved ground. There was distant thunder that echoed faintly. People rushed by the Eastern Gates, trying to find shelter before the heavy storm began. A group of large, huddled shapes shuffled across the gates, towering over the rest.

Tirium followed Arcanum's eyes, "There are many different survivors. That's the batch of Ogiers left in Manetheren. After the Grove burned. Now they just meander purposeless through the city. And who can blame them? You know how much they loved the Grove. It is as much of their home and heritage as their Stedding. They say home is where the heart is, and they look like those who have lost heart completely. "

Arcanum watched as the Ogiers shambled slowly into the Palace. One of them raised a head, and looked forlornly at the two men, then turned and entered the palacial arches. "How did you survive until we arrived?"

"The question of the year." Tirium jerked the canvas tarp over the top of the catapult, covering it from the rain. "Be the commander. You have two Grand-Legions against a body of Shadowspawn ten times their size, with seven dreadlords-and perhaps more. And darker whispers of a Master. The only city in their path to Manetheren has just been leveled, along with the entire fleet of veteran siege engines and two expert Aes Sedai. One week's straight march and they will be at the walls of Manetheren."

"The Marena Line." Arcanum realized suddenly.

"Yes, she was barely a trench when you left, but now...Now, it's fifty leagues of fortified battle works and solid, earthen stockades, and pitted with razor traps, placed on the likeliest route of invasion. One company of men could hold off an entire legion for eternity, and not even this Horde could smash through in less than a season's time. And protected against anything the Dreadlords can conjure. I helped design it and I helped build it. After ten years of construction, she was now ready to halt the Black Flood."

"And what happened? Did she?"

Tirium grimaced, "They are smarter and wilier then we give them credit. They never even attempted the Marena Line. The Horde circled around, passing across the Line to the east, and arching around to strike at Manetheren from the southeast, where Marena did not cross. We did not expect them to do anything but strike us directly from the north, and this came as a surprise. But, even so, they lost time and Trollocs as they circled around, harried by our Legions on their flanks. We scrambled to react, to somehow throw something in their path. Then, we saw Jara'Copan, right in the corridor. We needed to stall them there. We were willing to sacrifice an entire Grand-Legion if we had to.

"We evacuated Jara'Copan and bunkered two Legions of volunteers inside, as we worked feverishly to shore up our Southern defense. I was in charge of the city's forces, a rag-tag bunch of decade old stone-throwers and melted down copper pots. We were desperate alright, and knew we probably weren't going to survive after what happened at Shanaine."

The rain increased in tempo, beating down its steady cadence. Both men were now entirely soaked, the water cascading down their cloaks in rivulets. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard, followed by the thunderclap that drowned out Tirium's voice.

"...a final gambit. Assuming that the Seven don't tear down the walls again. And we were lucky; it was not a second Shanaine. Perhaps they were saving their energy for the capital, or were still recovering from the first city. While the Horde hammered against Jara'Copan, the earth did not swallow us whole. And they could not simply leave the city standing, not with a hostile fortress at their flanks to chew up their numbers. Jara'Copan became our bait. Every night, the defenders began to sneak out the mud gates in squads. For almost a month as a skeleton crew and I remained in the greatest bluff that we had ever created. And it worked. Caldazar was surely flying above us. When the Inner gates were finally broken, and the Trollocs swarmed in, there were but two scores of soldiers manning the keep's defense, scurrying out through the tunnels at the last minute."

Tirum chuckled dryly. "I could remember running the last gauntlet after lighting the match to the final surprise. Jara'Copan was now filled with Trollocs and empty of men. And every stone in that city was soaked with naph and brew. There was no stopping that inferno once the fuse was lit. It was a tomb for the Horde that day. Jara'Copan made everything possible, this brand new fleet and the survival of Victa Manetheren until your arrival. Everything is in its place for tomorrow, bound in the Creator's will."

"Almost too perfect." Arcanum breathed into the rain. "I do not think this storm will let tonight. Or tomorrow. It feels...unnatural." A flash of lightning arched down, almost simultaneously with its thunder, striking onto a spire of the palace. Darkness quickly took back the night, but Arcanum's gaze was still locked onto the glimmering spire where the lightning bolt had coursed through, and an idea formed.

Tirium took another swag from his wineskin, "I think you're right about the storm, General. I can feel it deep inside my bones."

"My friend, I fear that this is just the face of a stronger storm. And we must use all our ingenuity and resources these coming days if we do not want to be swept away."


	27. Wolfking of Manetheren

The storm of ages raged against the Palace walls, lightning crackling in the high-set windows, painting stark shadows across the Hall. Thunder roared in the air, and the palace seemed to shudder as it felt the weight of great forces converging.

The sound of Cathon's heavy boots on the polished floor echoed and resounded through the hall, punctuated by the heavy drumbeats of the rain and the staccato thunder. He was flanked by Nathen, Airena Sedai and Warder as they marched through the massive hallway, the tapestries fluttering and the palace shivering. Even within the great halls, Warder remained armored with his face hidden perpetually behind his helmet. In contrast, the Aes Sedai wore a court-appropriate silk yellow dress, embroidered with hummingbirds around the neckline.

One man stood before them, a tall gangly man leaning on a staff and wrapped in a dark amethyst cloak. He waited until the four had stopped before them, and the echoes of their footsteps diminished. Lightning lit the halls, highlighting the old, wily visage of the Royal Vizier, Ilak Didam, advisor to the High King.

"I must apologize for the lack of lighting." The vizier shifted on his gnarled staff which creaked slightly on his weight. "Even the oil for the lanterns has been reserved for the army. Well, my Lord, you are expected. Come. If you will follow this old man."

Didam straightened and walked farther down the hallway, to Cathon's eyes appearing to be more fluid --and dangerous-- than one would expect from an old man. The end of the hallway was marked by the solid shadow of a doorway, looming higher as they neared.

They were two wolfheads carved in that solid oak throne door, their citrine eyes gazing like fiery orbs onto all who walk into the presence of the King. But standing before the door were wolves of a greater and more dangerous breed. The legendary Heart Guards of Manetheren. Wearing their unique black-red cloaks with silver-trims, each was a woman with blazing predator eyes and a long sword-tipped spear over each silver-mailed arm. They were selected and trained and hardened for the one purpose of protecting the King. Cathon had crossed blades with a Heart Guard but twice--only once in the practice ring--and it was most definitely an event which he did want to relive.

As Cathon and Dadim approached, the two Heart Guards at the door did not even blink. But when the Royal Vizier had walked between them, they immediately crossed their  _ ashenderai _ behind the Vizier, snapping the gleaming steel blades to block Cathon's way. Cathon may be a First Lord, but in all matters of the King, a Heart Guard can deny even anyone passage. They were Aemon's hand and voice, with all its trappings and power.

Dadim knocked light upon the door, and with a brief delay it began to open, swinging inwards as pulled by the two Heart Guards stationed inside. The Vizier cleared his throat and bowed smoothly into the room, "My liege the King, I present Lawe Cathon, First Lord of Manetheren and Marshall-General of the Grand Legion of Manetheren and the Band of Red Hand, who requests permission for an audience."

"Granted." A voice boomed down the throne room halls.

The Heart Guards uncrossed their Ashandarei, tapping the ends to the floor in recognition. Dadim nodded to Cathon, and bowed to the side.

Warder whispered to Airena and took station across the corridor from the Heart Guard. He matched stares with the two Guards, and Cathon would find it difficult to wager who would win in a fight, but he certainly wouldn't be anyway near if that happened. With this exchange over, Cathon strolled into the room, Airena and Nathen trailing closely behind him.

Upon entering, Cathon almost smiled at the feeling of familiarity and nostalgia. The throne room was a massive piece of art, carved from the heart of the mountain. Stained glass mounted at each side filtered in the colored lights to dance on the marble floor, although tonight, the colors were gray and subdued and the glass was beaded with raindrops. The vaulted ceiling drew each whisper like a shout, echoing it for the whole world to hear. Their steps resounded heavily as they crossed through, and the door closed behind them with a shuddering slam.

Standing before the Throne were four men and six women. The foremost was the tall, striking figure of Aemon al Caar al Thorin, Wolf King of Manetheren, Holder of the Red Chalice, and Stone Warden of the Mountain Home. A sheathed greatsword was belted to his waist, and a red cloak flowed from his broad shoulders. The red cloak of the Band of Red Hand.

"It has been a long time!" Aemon called, his voice thundered in their ears. It was very much like that of General Diest Arcanum's, except flavored by culture and aged like fine wine. And why not, for Aemon was Arcanum's second blood-cousin. The King strolled forth, extending his massive hand.

Cathon grasped the hard hand in his own and bent his knee, "As you call, we heed."

"A very long time indeed." Queen Eldrene glided over, drawing Cathon's breath away. She was like he remembered her, her sun-danced tresses flowing lightly to her silk-draped shoulders. The last time he saw her, she was just a blossoming beauty, with marigolds braided in her hair, and dancing carefree in the verdant fields that must now be blackened with death. But that time was long past. He could see the wisdom and experience in her eyes, and the sadness and worry that comes with it, like a mirror to his own.

"My queen." He bowed and kissed her offered hand. As he straightened, she extended the arm to touch the medallion on his chest with familiarity, a slim finger circling the design of the black-white circle cradled in the fox's eyes. Her crisp, blue eyes met his own for a long moment, and then both drew away.

"So you wear it." Aemon remarked, his eyes having also seen the  _ Timari _ . "The last defense of Manetheren."

"So it is." Cauthon agreed. "And I return what was loaned to the Band."

He extended the red-gold box that was the cradle of Caldazar's shells, placing it firmly into the hands of its rightful owner. Then he lowered his head to remove his medallion but was stopped by Aemon's hand.

"So it be." Aemon opened the box with a light touch. The Cradle needed no blood from the King to attest his rightness. He gazed down at the remaining Shell then snapped the box shut once more.

Cathon continued, "My King, this is my Adjutant, Nathen Austern, and my Advisor, Airena Sedai."

"Yes, you recognize that this is to be a council of war." Aemon nodded at the two with Cathon, then the King turned to those who stood behind him. "These two gentlemen I am sure you recognize. First Lord Cysil and Second Lord Donahin, Generals of the Grand-Legions of Jara'Copan-no-more and the Tarendrelle -- your compatriots. And my advisors, Kariline Sedai, Relari Sedai, Iaveline Sedai, Masotomi Sedi, and Surelli Sedai."

Lord Cysil was a gaunt man, pale complexioned with a severe scar that etched down the side of his face. Donahin was almost the opposite, a dark man with a bricklike jaw and short of stature. 

The five Aes Sedai simply watched with their ageless faces. From a quick study of their shawls, Cathon counted two reds, two greens, and one yellow. They studied Cathon with a practiced eye, and then appeared to dismiss him, turning their attention to Airena.

“Surelli.” Airena gave a small incline of her head to the leader of the Tower delegation - a Red -- and did not approach them.

“The Nightingale. Why am I not surprised.” Surelli gave a smile that did not touch her eyes. Cathon could read Surelli’s icy glare from his experience with Airena. In the Red Sister’s flashing eyes, he could see a mixture of surprise and contempt, but he thought he could sense a hint of fear as well. A current of cold animosity bridged between the two Sisters across the room. 

Lord Cysil of the Grand-Legion of Jara’Copan-No-More coughed loudly and broke through the palpable tension. "It is good to have you and the Band back." Cysil said, "We've been harrying the invaders since they crossed the borders, cutting their numbers down. But now, their eyes are set on this city, and there is nothing left for us but a full confrontation."

"Today will perhaps be our last day of relative peace. The Horde are burning and pillaging the nearby villages, but have not put any organized attempts on the city, outside of the probe attacks. But, the Dreadlords are starting to mass them along the eastern Tarendrelle bank."

"How many?" Cathon immediately asked.

"Seven. We've sighted the banners of Ogrin Kai, the Fist of Chobok, Ingo Blade, the Black Fangu, the Riven Eye, Mordisiac Horadine." Donahin paused for a moment, "And, the seventh, the Traitor's army. Vanigan's...army."

"And that is not the worst part." Cysil added.

Donahin hesitated, "They have raised the standard of Ba'alzamon."

Cathon froze at this, his blood chilling in his veins. "Ba'alzamon?" His mind briefly flashed to the face of flames at Thakan'dar.

"Say true. And we estimate almost a million Trolloc."

Cathon whistled with his clenched teeth, "We have a chance I think. With six Aes Sedai, I believe…" Then he stopped as he suddenly realized there was a strained silence.

"We will not be staying." The Red Sister Surelli proclaimed. "We are leaving tonight."

"But we are surrounded by Shadowspawn-"

"We have our ways out." The Aes Sedai interrupted.

"Lord Cathon," Aemon said soothingly, "The Aes Sedai have promised us reinforcements. They need to coordinate the armies of the Compact of Nations."

"Is this true?" Cathon watched their eyes, but not a single brow flickered.

"Will two hundred thousand additional men save you, General?" Surelli remarked offhandedly.

"Do you usually answer a question with a question?"

Her eyes flared, "You have all you need to know. I do not have time to be interrogated by the likes of you. We have our orders. We leave, Sisters." Then her eyes moved to Airena, "And you too, Sister, if you know what is good for you."

The five Aes Sedai glided past. Surelli paused before Cathon as she passed and tapped him in the chest as if her fingernail was a dagger. “So this is who the Nightingale has her talons into now.” Then without sparing another glance, the Aes Sedai continued past. The Yellow trailing her lingered briefly to whisper something to Airena before running after her sisters.

As the Heart Guards opened the door, Surelli turned around, "You must hold for three days. Until the dawn break of the third day." Then they were gone, the door slamming behind them.

"You shouldn't antagonize them, Lawe." Queen Eldrene scolded him, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"We are left without a shield against the greatest force that has ever been brought to bear against our soil." Cathon turned to Airena, "Can we trust them?"

"Can we trust them?" Her mouth was a straight line. "Do not forget that I'm an Aes Sedai, General. As is your Queen."

"Yes, and that is why I ask. Can we trust them? Is this reinforcing force real?"

"I refuse to answer that, General." She narrowed her eyes, "But if you care, I am staying with you. I mean, Manetheren. You as in Manetheren, not you you…Never mind." She stared back at Cathon, daring him to say anything.

Cathon looked questioningly up at Eldrene, whose eyes briefly flickered between the general and the Aes Sedai curiously.

"The Amyrlin Seat and I haven't been on the best of terms but we have no reason to believe otherwise, Lawe. The word of an Aes Sedai is truth." The Queen answered mildly.

"Three days." Cathon chewed on that idea. "We can hold for three days. We will meet them on the Tarendrelle with our forces. Pull everything off the Northern front. We must march by tomorrow if we must hope to keep the Horde out of sight of Manetheren."

"And the Dreadlords? And the...other?"

"As the Wheel wills." Cathon sighed.

"The night will be long, and the coming days longer. This will be the longest day of our lives, gentlemen. Take a seat and let us talk of men and generals." Aemon motioned to the Petitioners' table.

Each of the men took a chair, and began to pour over the order of battle for the coming days. The oil chandelier flickered and burned above, and the storm beat on the stained windows. A servant had come in--Cathon didn't know when--and left a tray of mulled wines, which Cathon drank more than his share.

Some time deep into the night, Cathon leaned back, his head swimming with figures and numbers. Aemon was arguing with Donahin on the best placement of the reserves while Cysil was rummaging through the latest scout reports on troop movements.

"Time is a river that heed no man." Eldrene took a seat beside him and turned her crystal eyes to his. She had been deep in conversation with Airena.

"...for Time is a woman." Cathon finished, a smile gracing his lips, memories rushing into his head.

"You remembered." She replied with a brief smile.

"You've changed,  _ Ellisande _ ."

"I've changed?" She plucked at his beard with her nimble fingers, "I like what you've done here. When last I saw you..." She trailed off.

"We did not leave on the best of terms, I'm afraid."

"That's quite an understatement. But let us leave the matters of the past lie. We are adults now." She glanced at the giant map spread over the table. "I have missed you. More than you might know." She touched his cheek lightly. "I gave you that scar, didn't I?"

Cathon chuckled and rubbed at the small smooth mark, "Perhaps."

"Well, I forgive you. Do I have your pardon as well?"

"You had but to ask. To think we were so foolish once. And now a nation rests at our feet." Cathon grew serious. Nostalgia drained away in the face of reality.

"General Cathon," Aemon called out, startling Cathon. "What is your opinion on the most recent Shadowspawn troop movement."

"Let me not take you from your work. I must take a break from this stuffy room." Eldrene spoke softly and stood up. She whispered some words to the King and quickly departed.

Cathon watched the Queen leave then took the creased papers from Aemon's proffered hand. "Looks like a direct three prong attack. No guile and secrecy on their part. They want a full engagement and we cannot help but be bullied into it if we are to hold them." But even as he spoke, his thoughts were somewhere else, somewhere fifteen years past.

"Yes, yes. I see..." The King murmured, but it seemed Aemon's attention had wandered off as well. He had removed the last Medallion from the cradle and was now rolling the medallion in his fingers, rubbing the smooth surface. When Cathon had finished, Aemon softly tapped its silvery edge on the table and turned his head slightly as if to listen. There was a slight awkward silence.

"Sir?" Cysil asked, coughing.

Aemon stirred slightly, "You know, this is not the first time that there was a Last Defense. These medallions are not unused. If you touch them, you can almost feel the essence of the previous holders." He traced the symbol of the fox's eyes. "I am sure you have heard of how Sorella forged it from the mountain of fire. And that is a likely truth as any." Aemon rapped the  _ Timari _ on the table. Tap tap tap! In his eyes were a look that spoke of forbidden knowledge. Cathon did not understand what Aemon was leading to and was not certain that he wanted to. Tap tap tap. A smile touched the King's lips. "But perhaps it is older than we think. Perhaps it is not as human as we think."

Lord Donahin's jaws were slightly agape, and Cathon felt his own skin crawling. He felt as if his Shell was winking.

"And to listen to me talk, one would think me less than sane." Aemon sighed, "I speak but the words do not hold water. I apologize, but it is almost as if it is drawing something from me, like a pleading and haunting voice that cannot be silenced. That must be obeyed. Never the mind, it is not important. No, words are meaningless. I will speak with action."

With that, he bowed his head and slipped the medallion's chain over his head. Realization dawned on the generals.

Aemon folded his fingers over the Shell. "I have spent the last fifteen years sitting in this dusty hall, Sanction's honed edge lying wasted in its scabbard. I will ride tomorrow with my men." He waved off the protestations of the generals. "The Band of Red Hand is after all my army and I rode with them in Aridhol and Coremanda. I do not want to live history as the King who sat while the city burned. Let my people see me and know that their King is with them. Let my enemies see me and stir themselves into a frenzy. If I die, so be it. I am a King, but I am also a soldier, and that is our creed. I will hear no arguments."

"As you command, my King." Cathon acquiesced warily.

"Welcome to the flame." Tirium downed his wine.

"Merciful Caldazar." Donahin finished.

"I think this meeting is nigh over. We have some hours before we ride. Try to get some rest if you can." Aemon ran a hand through his hair.

Cathon stood and shook the hands of the generals and the King and stretched his cramped muscles. Austern collected the papers for Cathon and trailed after him. Airena was gazing at the storm beating against the stained windows, a finger twisting a lock of hair absentmindedly and an odd look on her face, as if in puzzlement.

He shrugged and exited the doors held open by the Heart Guards. Passing him was the Queen once more, and there was a brief exchange of glances, and then she was in, and he was out.

As he and Austern walked down the poorly-lit halls, Airena and Warder caught up smoothly.

"So it seems you are closely acquainted with Aemon." Airena asked.

"He is my King, no more and no less."

"And the Queen?" Her tone was nonchalant, but the way she said it caused Cathon to miss a step.

His adjutant took that hesitation to join in, a bemused grin on his face, "The Lord General was quite the romantic when he was young. His competition with the King for  _ Elisende' _ s heart is almost legendary, why you can-"

"That's enough, Nathen." Cathon interrupted, trying to hide his grimace. "I'm sure the Lady does not need to know my history or my long past youthful misadventures."

"Why, sir, you must have had a very long youth then." Nathen added.

"Are you feeling well, Airena?" Cathon asked the Aes Sedai, seeing her troubled expression. Most of his own personal demons had been locked away once he had set foot on Manetheren soil, where he had felt more like his old self, though sometimes in the late of night, he would wake, covered in sweat and reservations, cursing himself and all of creation.

"I'm fine. Just a headache. This storm makes me feel agitated for some reason. Something in the air. Like the calm before the storm. Except the storm is already here. But yet it's not. It's rather confusing." She frowned.

Cathon nodded unconsciously. He too felt the tension in the air, like an itch on the back of his neck that he just couldn't scratch. He's had hunches before, many times in his careers, so numerous that he had lost count. But now, he could swear something was about to happen. And he was probably right. They would be riding out to the final judgment very soon.

It didn't help that the storm was no doubt supernatural in origin. They were alone in the dark halls whose walls were embedded with dead and darkened torches. A man was walking towards them. The storm was still raging outside, lashing away at the men bunkered restlessly in their barracks. Their boots resonated, bouncing between the walls, but it was a lonely sound. A man was walking towards them. Somewhere a brood lark cried from its shelter, and the wind hissed its threats against the palace walls. A man was walking towards them. A small creature-perhaps a rat-scratched and scampered in the walls.

"It was a dark and stormy night." Cathon muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Nathen's voice echoed oddly.

Cathon just shook his head, with a rueful grin.

His hand was a blur, almost disappearing in the dark light.

There was a crack of the sword pulling from the scabbard and the hiss of the blade arching up. Though it took barely a second, it was almost too late.

The assassin opened his mouth but no sound came out. Cathon's sword was thrust cleanly through his chest, barely a foot away.

Cathon stared into the man's eyes. There was nothing behind the eyes. This was not to say the man was dead. No, for behind those black orbs was sheer oblivion of the soulless. It was an emptiness that tugged at Cathon's soul, pulling him towards insanity.

The man moved closer, walking down the sword in his chest towards the wielder, as if he had not just been dealt a fatal wound. He raised his dagger, its curved edge catching Cathon's trapped eyes. Its name was Death.

Then the dagger fell along with the arm. The man slumped, held up only by the Cathon's blade. The general dipped the blade and the soulless’ corporeal vessel slipped off, and crumpled to the ground.

There was the shimmer of steel as both Warder and Nathen drew their blades and Airena's sharp gasp. Perhaps a little too late, Cathon mused. By now he would've already been laid low by the phantom blade. Saved by reflex and something else? Intuition? Luck? A voice in the back of his head that wouldn't be stilled?

Warder had spun back to face the way they had, his keen eyes scanning for others like the slain. Once one was looking specifically for them, phantom blades are not terribly hard to see. But it was not the physical act that made these phantoms so hard to see. It was the fact that the soulless represented a madness-inspiring void that mortal eyes automatically avoid for desperate self preservation.

Cathon snapped his blade in a circular motion, returning the circulation to his hands, "What would one phantom want with us?"

"They shouldn't be able to enter the Palace. Karaline said that they had wards around the palace grounds." Airena carefully drew the slender blade from the pallid hand and swept down the hallway with an alert eye. "They don't usually come alone. If one could get in here-"

"The King." Cathon broke into a run. He did not need Airena to finish her sentence. He could hear them jogging behind until he skidded to a stop at the junction before the Throne room. Nathen stumbled into him from behind, but he didn't pay any attention.

"Airena, stay behind me." Cathon ordered, his sword poised at the ready. He stared at the carnage before him. Six Phantom Blades sprawled dead on the crimson carpet, but so were the two Heart Guards, their ashenderai blooded and still grasped in their dead hands.

There were two survivors. The first spun and raised his swords as the four arrived upon the scene, but quickly lowered his blade. The second was looking slightly worse for wear, leaning hard against the door, but his sword still gripped firmly in hand.

"Donahin! Cysil!" Cathon jumped over the corpses, sprinting towards the two generals.

"Light, are we glad to see you. Thought you were more of them." Cysil's eyes flickered past their shoulders. "We got attacked when we exited. Donahin was the first out and he took a nasty scratch. The Heart Guards were already dead, but they already took down most of the phantoms. They've barred the door from inside. I don't know who. There's sound of fighting. We tried to break down the door, but Donahin can barely lift his sword."

Donahin lifted his head and shook it. His eyes were sallow and his hair was damp with sweat. "I'm fine. We need to get to the King."

"Guard my back." Airena brushed past Cathon and placed her right hand on Donahin's chest. To Cathon, it seemed to be a light touch, but Donahin recoiled, sliding up on the door as if stung. She pulled her hand away with the ripping of his cloth, to expose his skin. There was barely a two-inch slash on the upper chest, but it was black and inflamed. Raised black veins extended from the puncture site, branching off in rivulets of ink.

"This has not reached his heart. Lie down, general." The Aes Sedai opened her left hand to reveal a wooden dog cradled in the palm. "Go to your King. I will try to heal him. If it is still possible." She placed her palm over the wound, hovering but not touching. Warder stood at the ready behind her, stone eyes scanning for more assassins. Then both the statuette and her hand began to glow a pure whiteness that seemed to suck the light from the hallway. Donahin shivered, all the muscles in his body clenched. His fingers stretched in a rigid pose, and his sword fell from his grasp, tumbling to the marble floor with a clatter that snapped Cathon from his trance.

The Wolfhead Door slid open.

The standing generals immediately cast their weapons up, to discover two blades at their own necks. There was a tense pause as the generals stared into the eyes of the Heart Guards, swords and ashenderai crossed in a frozen still.

"Enough. Stay your weapons." Aemon's voice boomed. "Let them through."

There was a shift of leather as the Heart Guards lowered their spears, but appeared ready to raise them at the slightest alarm.

Cathon snapped his blade, transferring his sword to a hilt-up grasp, but kept it unsheathed. The Heart Guards stood aside, allowing the generals their first view of the room.

The once-lit room was buried in darkness, the chandelier swinging darkened and the fireplace a murky pit. Wind immediately assailed the two men, the chill biting deep through their cloaks. Cathon looked up towards the source, the rows of stained glass windows were shattered, allowing the rain to flood down the walls in cascades. The floor was already wet with puddles and littered with the shards of once-beautiful glass images.

Aemon stood in the middle, the greatsword Sanction gleaming wetly in his grasp. Beside him, Queen Eldrene held a ball of glowing light that shed scattered beams across the room, throwing deep shadows over the dark figures lying motionless around them, as in a circle of death. Ilak Dadim was kneeling over one of the corpses, gingerly searching the assassins' forms. There were as many as ten of them--maybe more--a serious business.

"Are you hurt in any way, my King?" Cysil called forth.

"We are quite fine." Aemon straightened his cloak. "They came in through the windows. And that was their problem. Their masters created them for stealth, and it is quite difficult to conceal their entrance in this manner. Whoever sent them was obviously in a hurry or...Where's Lord Donahin?"

"He suffered a glancing wound from an ambush outside in the Hall." Cysil answered, "Cathon's Advisor is attending to him right now. We lost both Guards, my Lords."

Aemon nodded grimly, "I suspected as much. This is a daring move to destroy the chain of command, and we must expect more. Though I find it odd that they knew exactly when to strike, unless they had spies, which in this age of Darkfriends, is no surprise. It is also entirely possible that this wasn't the only action taken." Then he paused. "Did you hear that?"

Through the veil of rain pierced a distant and muffled horn, repeated and scattered, but its existence was undeniable.

"The City Gates have been breached." Cathon spoke what everyone had just realized.

"Impossible!" Cysil uttered, "Last scout report records no activity past the Manetherendrelle. They could not have struck without warning."

But there was the distant alarm again.

"They have made the first move." Aemon sighed. A dozen Heart Guards swept into the Throne Room, their Ashenderai bared, called by the alarm to protect their King.

"So it begins." Cathon felt a rising coldness deep within him. "Time to roll the dice."


	28. Most Trusted

The blade glimmered dully in the candle light, its once virgin sheen now etched and covered with years of use and age. Stef slowly turned his wrist, keeping a stiff grip on the well-worn leather-wrapped hilt. He rotated the plane of the sword and nodded satisfactorily at the new-learned control in his right arm.

"How does it feel?" Tayren asked, glancing up from the card game with the other gate guards.

"It's the oddest thing. Feels like I'm missing my left hand… oh wait, I am. " Stef grumbled, keeping his eyes on the blade. "I've strengthened my right arm, but in a battle, I do not know how it will fare. I need more time in the practice yards."

"Well, now you can hold a sword the proper way, you southie. I'm sure you also liked having that little nurse of yours ogling you too."

"Zira. Her name is Zira." Stef turned an eye toward Tayren. "And it’s purely professional. She's not what you make it out to be."

But Stef knew that wasn't quite true, although it had been somewhat innocent at first.

His first time in the yards, Stef was stripped to his waist as he tried to relearn all the skills he had stored in his left hand. And he was failing. He was born a left-handed man and would continue to be one, regardless of the existence of the limb in question. The sword did not even feel the same way; its weight and touch was alien and out of place. He held and swung the blade awkwardly, stumbling through novice exercises that he would once have scoffed at. After an hour with seemingly no progress, Stef threw his gladius to the ground with disgust.

"You shouldn't give up so soon." Stef raised his head to the speaker. Zira was sitting on one of the benches lining the yard, watching him with those big eyes of hers. She wasn't wearing her nurse's smock and her long hair now framed her face. She reached beside her and tossed him his shirt.

"What brings you here, Zira?" He reached out to catch the shirt, but it fell through the missing hand, drifting to the dirt. He sighed, plucked up the shirt with his right hand, and wiped the sweat from his face, tossing it onto his shoulder. "No patients?"

"For some odd reason, soldiers don't like being confined to the bed. As soon as they have regained a semblance of thought, they're out the door, even if they have to drag themselves."

"You don't say." Stef retrieved his sword.

"Come on up and let me take a look at you. Anyway, you shouldn't give up so soon." Zira repeated. "You just need to build up the strength in your right arm and coordination comes with practice. Healing isn't fast. If it was, we would not have the opportunity to learn from our mistakes."

Stef took a seat beside her, "And this comes from personal experience?"

"I am a nurse after all." She raised his left arm, studying the point of amputation. It was largely healed, covered by a smooth skin. "I have known many amputees. Too many, if you ask me. Many of them would have preferred to have been killed rather than live ‘less than whole’ or ‘lacking Means’ as they call it. But, then there are those who grow stronger. You look like one of the latter, Sergeant Stef Stef. You look like a survivor."

"Let's hope so." Stef replied. "Do you always give such attention to every one of your patients?"

"Perhaps I'm just bored. You remind me of someone I had once known. I hope I'll be seeing you around, sergeant." She kissed him on the cheeks, straightened her skirts, and hurried away.

Everyday after, she came to watch him practice his blades. His sword-handling began to improve, as did his mood and demeanor. He showed her how to hold the sword properly, more as an excuse to be next to her. She was a fast learner, and would soon best him one out of three, even with him trying. She also showed him a few tricks with dagger throwing; it turned out she was quite a knifesharp. 

But beyond that, sometimes Zira even managed to persuade him into a walk into the Palace Gardens. And well, after years of looking at mud and more mud, the trip to the gardens wasn't exactly torture. But Stef wasn't going to endanger his image by admitting it. At least in public.

"So I hear the Band is setting out for the Manetherendrelle." Zira remarked on one of the walks, clutching tightly to his arm. They were sheltering under the boughs of a large greendrew tree, caught by surprise by the breaking of the rain clouds.

"Aye." Stef stared glumly at the streams of water already forming by the pebble path. "Just our luck to be walking into this. This'll be like Jaramide all over again, in the spring when all the snow melts and becomes shi…brown…um…colored mud."

"We will win, right?" Zira pulled him closer, "You will come back to me in one piece."

"We cannot lose. There is a rightness in what we do."

"Just because you're right does not mean you'll live. The most judicious man of the world is no more protected from mortality than the vilest. Go away with me, Stef. Run away from all of this. There are still places untouched in this world." She pleaded.

"That I cannot do."

She pressed her lips fiercely to his, and they were lost in their embrace. And for a moment were lost in that place untouched by war. And for a moment-

"Hey, Sarge." Tayren grinned, "Thinking of the Miss? Mayhaps she pay us a little visit tonight? Cause if she's into you, then she's gonna love me. After all, I have twice as many hands."

"She'd gut you like a fish. Her skill with the dagger is no joke. Mind your business." Stef grunted, laying his sword on the table, and began to clean it with grease. "None of your light forsaken business."

A bird suddenly fluttered in through the tower's only window slit, dripping and spraying droplets everywhere. Tayren snatched it out of the air, smoothly keeping his cards hidden in hand, and turned the pigeon upside down.

"Looks like some messages from the scouts." He pulled the bone container out and tossed the bird away, which scrambled onto the mantle of the fireplace, its head cocked as if looking for seeds.

"What, we lookin’ at some company tonight?" One of the card players muttered, his eyes glancing at his remaining tokens forlornly.

"Nah, it says here that all's well. Figure they'd send something completely useless like that." Tayren crumpled up the paper and tossed it smoothly into the fire. "Come on, let's take a looksee at your cards. Well, look at that. I got the Dark One's own luck tonight."

There was a general grumble as Tayren raked in the pile of tokens. With a practiced hand, he sorted out the useless promissory notes from the cold hard coins, occasionally biting down on a dubious disc.

"Alright, folks, just to make sure there's no hard feelings, a free round for everyone." Tayren reached down and plopped a full wineskin on the table, "Got it straight from the Markey. Cut off my own hand –no offense, sarge- trying to get someone dumb enough to accept those paper fodder they pay us."

Stef chuckled softly. Tayren could swim through a mile of sewage and come out smelling like a flower. Already, the mood in the room was lightening as full mugs began to replace empty pockets. Perhaps, they might not notice the cards Tayren was slipping from his sleeve into his pouch.

Only one of the guards refused a drink. A private named Sanak or some sort, his face looked perpetually like he was chewing on a lemon. He had the same pinched look on his face as he barked, "No drinks on guard duty."

"Aw, come on, son." Tayren cajoled, pushed a mug towards him. "Just one."

"No, be glad I do not report you." Sanak tipped the mug on to the floor, then turned his eyes to Stef, the only sergeant in the room, "And you should know better, sarge."

"I certainly should, shouldn't I?" Stef remarked mildly, catching the mug that Tayren slid across the table. He drank it down in two gulps. It left his mouth feeling numb and a trail of fire down his gullet. Tasted a little vinegary, but considering the circumstances, he wasn't complaining. He'd been dry for so long that just one drink left him a little dazed and slightly disoriented.

"Blood and ashes, that has a kick." Stef murmured to himself, and shook off a second offer. "I think you got cheated, Tayren, because someone sold you cat piss."

The numbness in his mouth did not fade away slowly as he was expecting, instead spreading like a web of coldness that permeated every inch of his being. Alarm bells began ringing in his head. He lunged for his blade, lying close on the table, but his arms didn't seem to want to respond. He clipped the table, and hit his chin on the surface, but he didn't feel the collision.

A mug shattered to the ground, and a guard slipped from his chair, pawing futilely at his belt sheath. Sanak, the only person who did not drink, stood up, his eyes widening and drawing his gladius.

Tayren was faster. Before Sanak could move a step, Tayren's sword was buried in his chest, and the Private toppled like a sack of bricks.

"No respect these days." Tayren's voice was far darker than Stef has ever remembered him being. He walked quickly to the door and lowered the iron bar, sealing the tower from the world.

Stef tried once more to grapple at his sword with an unresponding hand, but only succeeded in pushing it off the table. No! This couldn't be happening! With all his will, he forced himself to fall after the sword.

Then Tayren was standing over him, casually kicking the gladius away from his reach. "Sorry, friend. Can't let you have that." The face glowed sinisterly in the candlelight, and a dull gleam was in the eyes of the sergeant's most trusted friend.

The traitor seemed to have read the look in Stef’s eyes. For a moment, there was a crack in the surface of the ugly mask, and there was a pleading tortured man trapped in a prison.

"I cannot stop it. They’re in my head. In Jaramide—I didn't escape—They caught me. I am so sorry." Tayren stood up, and Stef followed his movement to the massive winch and chain that controlled the Inner Gate. That was insanity! It takes both towers around theInner Gate to raise it. And two more controlling the Outer Gate. What makes him think--

There was the muffled rattling of chains being loosened, but Tayren had not yet touched the winch, simply waiting. But hearing the same noise, Tayren closed his eyes and began to cycle through the winch.

Stef closed his eyes in despair. They were everywhere, even in the home of Manetheren. If he could have made a Darkfriend his friend, and his confidante in his own foolishness and blindness, where else could they have nestled, simply waiting for the time to strike. But how was it possible? He shivered in his drug-induced state. He could already hear the creak of the Drawbridge of the Outer Gate falling across the moat. Four towers, with armed guards each, and they got them all.

Then came the sound Stef dreaded the most. The clop of heavy footsteps crossing below the tower that did not belong to any human source. The pigeon that Tayren caught, Stef realized, was the warning that they were supposed to receive. Now, it was too late, the message intercepted by treasonous guile. And the Horde was marching into their homes in the dead of night.

The sergeant part of Stef screamed at him, pounding into his head. This was not going to happen on his watch. If he could either overpower Tayren or raise a warning, there was a chance to still stop it! Stef shuddered, his consciousness floating in the sea of whiteness. He sent the tendrils of willpower outwards, forcing contacts into his paralyzed muscles, urging them to work.

There was a distant cry of alarm, and the sound of scuffle just within the gates. A horn tone cracked through the storm, quickly taken up by more. There was still hope. If they could close the gates in time.

He strained against the numbing pain, moving his left hand inches by inches towards the field knife on his belt. He closed his hand on it, gritting his teeth as he tried to maintain a semblance of grasp. If it slipped out, he had no doubt that he would not be able to reach it again. There was no strength in his arm to throw it, let alone wield it with any potency. But he was going to go down fighting, the only way he knew how.

The roar of battle outside now drowned out the roar of the storm. Stef felt the draw of the clash of steel and iron, and wished he could be there, instead of lying helpless and impotent.

Then the tower door shivered with a heavy blow. The bar and lock were both solid iron, but the door frame itself was only reinforced wood, and buckled inward, cracks spider webbing through the casing. There could be two forces outside, either the Shadowspawn coming to secure the gate, or Band defenders. As the frame buckled and bent, Tayren continued to stand by the winch, glazed eyes staring into space and head cocked to the side, as if he was listening to something distant.

Then just as the doorway was to be breached, Tayren flowed into action. Picking up Stef’s gladius --his own was still buried in Sanak-- he darted towards the side of the door, no doubt to wait in ambush.

This was Stef’s chance, and he clumsily swung his knife as the traitor passed. It was a terrible strike, both excruciatingly slow and lacking power, but something seemed to guide his hand, grazing one of the Tayren's thighs before the dagger fell from his dull hands. It left only a shallow wound, but caused the man to flinch and stumble. At that moment, the frame finally splintered and the iron door tipped over. Tayren jerked aside, taking a glancing blow to his shoulder. But his element of surprise was lost.

The first soldier blocked his lunge, forcing Tayren backwards to allow the rest of the men to enter. Tayren gave a lurch as in surprise, his head twisting halfway as if to look at Stef. And the sergeant knew why. He was fighting none other than his father, Jorj Reimos. The mixture of smoke and dust and the uncanny resemblance must have indeed shaken Tayren. But he recovered after the first stroke and fought like a man possessed, with wild and furious swings, intending to force them back, to stall them.

But Jorj was a wily and practical man. He caught one of the swings in his sword's guard, twisting and trapping the blades together. He pulled up, and two soldiers swung around and skewered Tayren through the torso. A kick to the abdomen and the turncoat stumbled back and crumpled to the floor.

The soldiers wasted no time on the various bodies on the floor. His father glanced down to see him at a quick scan of the room, his eyes flickering on Stef’s prone form for just a second, before returning to an appraisal of the room. Sprawled in his repose, Stef had all the semblance of death.

"Get the winch! Two guards on door. Let's hope we got through the other tower." Jorj called, jumping over bodies as he rushed towards the gate-controller. Two soldiers quickly flanked the door, while the three others rushed to help Jorj with the winch.

There were more footsteps below them, and one of the guards called out, "Company. Hurry! Oh a fa-" The man twisted and fell, clutching frantically at what remained of his shattered throat. The second guard slashed out without a thought, and was thrown hard across the room, his head cracking against the stone wall with a wet thump.

Darkness covered the doorway, resolving into the image of a Halfman and its Trollocs. The Myrddraal surged across the room with deadly liquid grace, but the soldiers within did not hesitate a second. A chair was already airborne, but the Fade smashed it aside in a shower of splinters. The two soldiers engaged, their swords swiping in time, but the Fade batted the blows away casually. Then it drew a second ebony blade in its left arm. It struck like a whirlwind with the dual blackswords, slicing through steel and flesh, leaving shreds of red fabric floating in the air, and a fine spray of crimson beaded onto Stef’s face. It stormed down upon Jorj Reimos, a giant prepared to crush an ant below its tread. It pushed aside the table from its path, and turned its eyeless visage towards its target.

The last man standing stood calmly, a look of utter acceptance in his face. He did not raise his blade to ward off the raised blades. His gaze was steady and his arm was steadier.

His sword arched out. The Fade struck.

As Jorj was cut down, he slashed through the chains of the Gate winch. As his knees collapsed, the chains flashed up through the walls into the Wheel hub, disappearing. When his head rolled to a stop before his prostate son, there was a massive lurch and a shiver of the floor as the Inner Gate slammed down with an explosion that rattled the walls. Mortar rained from the ceiling and half-empty mugs shattered to the floor. Staring into the lifeless serene eyes of his father, Stef struggled hard to not vomit, for in his state, he would be apt to choke on it like a drunk.

The Fade hissed its dismay at the receding chain. It jerked to the sound of further footsteps on the stairway, spitting out incomprehensible venom commands to the Trollocs in the room. It grasped the massive iron pulley where the chain had once hung and ripped the entire contraption from the walls, leaving a massive jagged hole. It tossed the pulley aside and slipped out into the storm, leaving its cadre of Trollocs behind.

The human reinforcement poured into the room, swamping the leaderless Spawns. The battle was fierce but short, and when the last Trolloc fell, the sound of battle below began to fade and recede. The Outer Gate rattled closed as its two Towers were cleared. The stem of Spawns had been cut and the battle was over.

But the level of activity in the room remained unabated. The wounded needed to be transported and healed, the dead needed to be covered and buried, and the missing found and counted. And there was the matter of how they were betrayed.

A soldier stood above Stef, glancing down as if in debate. The sergeant forced his mouth to open, croaking, "Alive. I'm alive."

"Nurse!" The soldier called out, and suddenly a very familiar face was leaning over him.

"Stef!" Zira cried, kneeling over him. "What? What's wrong?"

"Poison," Stef felt her hands clutching his tightly. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. "I think. Temporarily." He could already feel the effects waning. Or perhaps it was only his mind playing tricks on him. The white numbness was now the gentle and soothing sensation of agonizing pain. But why would Tayren use such a mild poison? Could it be possible that even as a Darkfriend, he did not want to harm the friend he was betraying? Stef remembered the trapped look in Tayren's eyes. Perhaps there was a part of him left. Part of him that wanted a way out.

As Zira helped him sit up, Stef stared at the carnage unleashed, and could only imagine the aftermath of the battle at the Gates. Then he felt strong hands on his shoulders and he was propped up against the wall.

"My lady, if you will excuse us." A rumbling voice like a growling sandcat said, and a gnarled face was peering into Stef’s eyes. "If he's a survivor, we have some questions we need to ask."

"He's sick. Poisoned. What possible questions do you need to ask at this time of night?" Zira tried to move towards him, but was stopped gently by two guards.

"He is the only living witness of what happened tonight. We were betrayed and we will find the source before it is too late." The man stood up, and a black mantle and band revealed that he was a royal inspector.

"You can't possibly believe—"

"I will release him into your care, Madame,  _ after  _ I am done. My apologies in advance." The man turned on his heels, and Stef was lifted lightly by two dark-mantled men. In his trance, he felt as if he was floating.

"Wait!" Zira's last cry slowly faded as they descended the tower stairs with him in tow.


	29. First Day

#  Chapter Twenty-Nine: First Day

Manetheren city disappeared in the veil of rain. The tall spires and victorious towers became faint shadows until they too fell away from vision. The night's bloody events too were washed away by the steady downpour.

General Diest Arcanum looked forward and resumed his walk through the ankle-deep mud, already feeling the wetness seeping into his boots. He would have very much preferred to be riding at that point. But he'd also have preferred that the catapults arrived at the front on time, so he gritted his teeth and slogged on towards Captain Blake of the leading team.

"Captain! I'm going back to check on the cargo. For now, the fleet is at your disposal. On arrival, get all the teams set up." He yelled over the rain.

"Acknowledged." Blake gave a short nod, the water flowing around his visor, "Good luck."

Arcanum gave a thumbs up, and circled around the train of catapults, heading back to check on the status of the Special Armaments.

"Everything checks out?" He asked as soon as he saw Tirium.

"It took all of your influence and mine to get the Marshall General to release the iron we needed." Tirium patted the load on the nearby cart. "He doesn't seem too fond of you. If this plan of yours doesn't work out, we're in hot water."

"Aye, a Trolloc's pot." Arcanum replied dryly, "Did you get him to relinquish the other?"

"Yes, we got them all bunched and stacked ready back at the South Gate. After we unload the rods, we'll need to make several trips with these horses to transport them here. But from the looks of this weather, we're not going to be able to use them for a while."

"Alright, the front's near. I can trust you to distribute these?" Arcanum motioned forward to the affirmative. He quickly outdistanced the wagons to arrive at the catapults' dock zone. Prefabricated platforms were already in place, to give the cats elevation in the otherwise flat plain. Arcanum shook out his newest watch-glass and took his first peek of the battle. The river Tarendrelle stood between the two forces, swollen to almost double its size by the constant rain. Tendrils of Trollocs extended from the main body, attempting to ford the river, but most were swept away downriver.

"Map here!" Arcanum called out. This was as good a vantage point as any to command. Two soldiers hurried up with the makeshift post, staking the stand into the ground. A cured canvas relief of the battlefield was nailed securely onto the board. Arcanum ran his fingers over the smooth map, then procured two oil-soaked torches to provide sputtering light.

"Message podium up, sir!" Someone shouted to Arcanum. Arcanum raised a hand, signaling for a test flare. The signaler on top circled his fingers in acknowledgement, and raised his torch. It flickered under the assault of the rain, but it should be able to be seen by all the cat teams

"Sir, how goes the front?" Captain Blake yelled from atop one of the catapult platforms.

"Stalemate. This storm they cooked up is actually working against them." Brief flashes of fire and explosion sprinkled through the watch-glass. "The river is overflowing and they can't do anything until their storm lets up. Although the Dreadlords are taking a number on our men. How soon can we start firing back?"

"Right now! But we have no vision, so we'll need some ranges."

"Five waves of naphtha at maximum range then work your way to dry ordinance. Remember, better to overshoot than undershoot." Arcanum replied, waving to the message platform.

The signaler unfurled his torch again, raising it high in the air. Sparks of fire waved in reply, and there was a hum of catapults firing simultaneously. Glowing red missiles arched across the air, wavering in visibility through the rain. They curved almost beyond the horizon, slamming down to create a massive arch of fire, heedless of the waterlogged land.

"By Caldazar, these are beautiful engines." Arcanum watched the second wave flare across the sky. And a third. But this one was drowned out by the flash of blinding lightning.

A platform collapsed in fire, sparks dying on the smoldering heap of burnt timber and flesh. In a never-ending chain, lightning lashed the battlefield, burning a swathe of ashes across the landscape. But the men of Thunder Legion were disciplined and their shots never hesitated.

"What's going on, General?" Blake suddenly called.

Arcanum turned to see engineers climbing aboard the platforms. "Lightning rods. Solid iron tip and center, and twice the height of a man. If the Dreadlords intend to strike with lightning, then we will give them something to strike, in place of ourselves."

The rods were mounted and grounded quickly with chain anchors, and throughout the battlefield, similar contraptions were affixed to soak the Dreadlords' ire. Assuming that the Dreadlords did not have complete mastery over the storm, especially over such a large area.

"Metal attracts lightning, then? Fire!"

"Yes, at least from personal experience." Arcanum could see the tall spikes rising across all the battlefront, like the back of a bristling spinerat.

"Cut range! Then why are we wearing steel helmets?" Blake shouted.

"Your sharp wit is wasted on us, captain!" Arcanum saw a messenger riding towards him. "Yes?"

"The Trollocs are landing bridges across the river. The Marshall General wants you to take them out." The messenger steadied his panicking horse as another lightning crackled down near, coursing down one of the rods in the vicinity.

"That's too risky!" Arcanum replied, "Half of our misses would hit our own men."

"Then don't miss. The Dreadlords are raking through our front lines. If the Trollocs get a beachhead, we might not be able to stop their advance. This river is the only thing we've got! You know what you need to do!" The messenger saluted, and spurred his horse onwards.

Arcanum did not return the salute, "Blake, you see those bridges he was talking about?"

"Barely. Looks nasty. It's going to be tough shots."

"You think you can hit them?"

Blake replied with the firing crack of his catapult. Arcanum watched its descent, slamming squarely into one the dark log-bridges milling with Trollocs. It split its spine and the advancing Trollocs were dragged into the watery depths.

Other skilled catapult teams followed suit, raining boulders into the river, snapping wood and bones alike, sending geysers of water nearly twenty feet into the air. However, one unlucky –and to Arcanum, inevitable- shot missed its target range, bowling into the soldiers guarding the bank, killing half a dozen before they even realized they were dead. Arcanum grimaced, closing his eyes. Trollocs in front and catapults in the back. The foot soldiers' lives hung on the balance of a knife edge.

For a second Arcanum thought no one had seen it. Then, the catapults all became silent.

"Your posts, gentlemen!" Arcanum screamed, "They did their duties. You will too!"

There was a dangerous silence that even drowned out the crash of thunder. Arcanum breathed into the mist, holding his breath. Come on. This is not the time. Do not force this.

There was a single crack of a catapult. Another missile ascended, and the rest fired their acquiescence. Arcanum sighed as the staccato barking of catapults filled the air once more.

"Thank you, Blake." Arcanum spoke into the rain.

"Wasn't me." Was the curt and barking reply.

Arcanum turned his face upwards, letting the cool rain tap against his skin. Was the storm letting? The fierce storm had subsided to a hard drizzle, although the darkness still remained. He could see faint stars through the sheets of water. How fast the day has gone. The drizzle slowed to a gentle mist, before the storm clouds passed them lazily towards the west. The rumble of thunder was still ominous but distant.

"General!" Tirium appeared beside him, the torch in his hand lighting a face wet and brimming with exertion.

"Is everything prepared for our show?" Arcanum greeted him.

"There have been some minor setbacks. Dampness issues, but I think ninety-eight percent are in working condition. An excellent yield, given the conditions."

"Good, I have a feeling. Be prepared to give the signal." Arcanum stared across the field of battle. Like fireflies, torches were lit against the approach of night, blooming until the entire riverbank ran with ember lights. Beyond the river, there were no torches, only crawling and seething darkness. "They are planning something. I do not know how long before the river falls to a fordable level, but I do know they have something planned. It's a waiting game. Until the river lowers, we can only simply gaze across the black sea and fear the weight of numbers closing on us. How did the lightning rod dispersal go?"

"We managed to seed most of the ranks. They took a heavy beating from lightning strikes already. So in other words, a complete success." Tirium peered down at the General's Map. "How recent is this?"

Before Arcanum could reply, he felt the soil shifting almost imperceptibly beneath his feet. Like a feeling of change of altitude felt deep inside the guts but almost unrealized by the eyes. He grabbed on to the wooden stand for balance, "You feel that?"

"Yeah, feels like the ground is changing shape, like something is under us." Tirium answered, "Something big."

At those words, images coalesced in Arcanum's minds, images of the ground belching forth worm-creatures like those they had fought at Thakan'dar. Images of their flanks crushed beneath the heel of earth demons. There was a stir in the legions, as each felt the rumbling of the ground, each imagining and remembering the possibilities.

"The river!" Arcanum shouted, as he stared through his water-glass. "It's the river. Something's happening there!" Right before his eyes, the river quivered in black sloshes, circling in a rippling maelstrom of froth and spray. A line appeared across the center of the river, a chasm that sunk below, pulling and draining the water down. "By Caldazar, they're forcing the water underneath!"

As soon as the water began its descent, the entire Horde front stormed into the water, heedless of the violent suction that had appeared. They splashed across fierce knee-high water, and slammed into the first fortification. The battle had been met in earnest.

The men were taken by surprise. First the river had seemed crazed and possessed, and now the Shadowspawn were on them, striking from the darkness into the sphere of their torches. The lines bulged and broke, as soldiers retreated back behind fieldworks and fieldworks. They could not be stopped, breaking and spilling over men and steel like the flood they had passed. Arcanum could only stare across as the torchlights were extinguished by the wave of blackness. This was night. This was not their element. They had to make it their element or be broken.

"Tirium, how soon can you start them?" The lines were buckling and torches were falling dead by the droves.

"Now." The engineer nodded grimly, an Arbalest in hand. He dipped the bolt head in the torch until the steel point glowed orange, and raised it toward the sky. The bolt traced a gold-red path up into the sky, burning into ambers until it faded from the vision.

Arcanum stared after it, into the dark water-logged sky, staring and waiting. Below them, the battle was joined between night and day, and the light was diminishing. Then from the horizon came a white shooting star that was no star at all. It streaked above the battleground, appearing to float there before its fire was extinguished.

"The tracer." Tirium whispered. "It is a good sign."

Five more glowing embers followed the first, their trails slicing glowing wounds through the darkness. Then they exploded in a glittering shower that for one moment lit the sky and earth. One thunderclap. Arcanum sensed the ponderous pause. Men and beasts turned their faces skyward at the brilliant gems.

Then came the torrent of fire. The sky was split asunder by the white trails that assumed from the horizon. Light and sound bloomed into being, cinders descending like the boughs of a million-tendriled weeping willow. Four thousand tons of fireworks shrieked into the sky, enough to light the battlefield with a second sun. The black frothing river became a shimmering white glow.

Five Fire Blossoms sowed the sky as Thunder Howlers shook the fiber of every being, leaving vibrations scoring through Arcanum's nerves. There were Blue Lances, Angel Flares, Silver Skates, Droomalongs, Daggerfall, Sky Python, and even a Red Heart.

The explosion of the fireworks drummed a steady beat into their eardrums, a pulsating that stirred the blood and awakened the thousands of chemicals flowing through the bloodstream, charging the heart. This was the Feastday, their days of days. This was their element again, light and sound and fire, and the rippling sea of torches solidified and expanded outwards.

The Trolloc ranks fell immediately into panic and then rout under the assault. For Trollocs had never seen a fireworks show, and it must have seemed that the heaven was on fire, the embers appearing to fall right onto their very heads. They were blinded by the searing light, their cloak of safety torn away by the Engineering Corps' devastating attack.

If the world was a stage, then this battle was the centerpiece. Arcanum had been an avid fan of the theater in his youth, with a box seat in the Coratheren Philharmonics, but this spread before him was the drama that could never be matched. At first glance, the lightshow of the sky might be seen as the production, but it was only the orchestra in the deep of the pits, its music and vibrance only to serve the true tragedy and comedy. For below, men fought and died, their lives intermittent torches that burned ever so small and insignificant, but together made a stand so vast that it was a field of blaze. It was a terrible song and a terrible dance, but Arcanum was trapped in the stage, his eyes frozen to the choreography. This was what it was to be a god, to watch the rise and fall of mortals, the passion trapped and unleashed, the magnitude of infinity.

That was their stage. This was their orchestra. Arcanum let the wash of life sweep over him. Let the Great Alliance watch the skies and wonder at the maelstrom that centered over Manetheren. Let the world see that they are completely alive. Let them see that they would not go gently into that good night. No, for in that play, the finale yet waits.


	30. Second Day

The sun's appearance across the eastern horizon did not see a halt or even a reduction in the fighting. Though the Trollocs had been pushed back across the river in the night's events, they had not given up, especially not when they had a bottomless source of bodies to draw from. And now, another sally surged into the front lines, a giant pseudopod extending from the amorphous Horde.

But the legionnaires did not draw back and absorb the hit, but braced and readied a wall of pikes. The Shadowspawn collided into the waiting spikes, driven on by their own bloodlust and their comrades. Tension rippled through the pike men as they stood their ground against the mounting pressure. It seemed for a moment the Trollocs would burst through, but with fast discipline, the soldiers held firm. Then down came the pikes and up the normal gladius, slicing heavily into the halted Trollocs.

"Enter the heavy cavalry." Cathon watched as the corps of armored horsemen stiffened with Heart Guards cut a swathe through between the sortie and the main body, severing the arm of the Horde. The trapped and separated Trollocs were quickly destroyed by focus fire.

"Now repeat ten thousand times." The general chuckled humorlessly to himself. He rubbed at the General's Map with black Marking Oil. He would have killed for a map like this in the North. It was a commander's dreams. Terrain contours and engineers' legacy of precise surveying. He marked off more battalion changes with oil, making a few notes on shatter points—areas of weakness that could fracture entire formations under heavy pressure.

"General!" Nathen tossed a leather pouch of the latest troop movements down beside the Map stand. "I have some news. The King has called a temporary ceasefire."

"What, why?" Cathon fumbled for his watch-glass, "That's insanity. We'd only be standing still as we got hacked to pieces."

"They have shown the white flag for talks." By the way Nathen stressed ‘they’, Cathon knew who he was talking about. "The King needs you and the other Marshall-Generals in his tent to await their representative."

The Horde indeed seemed to have drawn back reluctantly, and the Legions did not press at them. A small group of mounted creatures – humans! -- detached itself from the main Horde, riding boldly across the river, a flash of white raised at the fore. No arrows rose to greet them, and the men of Manetheren parted quickly before the envoys. One peek through the watch-glass told Cathon all he needed to know.

"I'll be back! See that any deceit on their part does not go unpunished." Cathon grimly proclaimed, then mounted his waiting horse with growing displeasure. He issued a few last orders to the line captains and set off at a canter towards the King's Headquarters. It was located near the front of the stationed men, against the expressed disapproval of the generals. But Aemon was adamant and there it stood, a low-hanging canvas framework with a simple banner of Caldazar staked in front.

Cathon handed off the reins of his horse and strolled up to the Heart Guards that patrolled its perimeter. They did not move to stop him, so he ducked his head under the tent flap and entered.

It was a soldier's tent –although larger than most—but still austere in design and utilitarian in purpose. There were no lavish tapestries or silk carpets. The walls were stabled instead in maps and pieces of parchments. There was a table in the middle, with one oil lamp propped in the center. The pile of papers that usually covered the table was now piled in a corner. King Aemon was conferring quietly with Generals Cysil and Donahin when he looked up to Cathon's approach.

"He has not arrived yet. Have a seat." Aemon motioned, and he obeyed, pulling up to the table. "Check your sword."

"I hardly think it is wise, my King." Cathon protested, eyeing the sheathed weapons placed squarely on the table.

"Check your sword." Aemon simply repeated. Cathon sighed, removed his sword and set it with the others.

The tent flap shifted softly, heralding a moment of tension. But a woman's face peered in, followed by a woman's body. Cathon sighed. It was only Airena. Certainly as an Advisor –their only Tar Valon Advisor and the only check against  _ him _ \- she would be in attendance. He had not seen her for some time, for she was often pulled thin across the battlefield. But, he could not but feel that she had been avoiding him. They locked gaze for a second as she entered, but she shifted her eyes away and avoided returning his glances. She took a seat by Cysil, right across from Cathon. She did not have her customary knitting with her today. She checked no weapons. For she was a weapon in herself. But was she weapon enough for the meeting?

There was the noise of men and horses outside. A tendril of cold air slithered in through the tent's opening, swirling across the closed space. A man ducked in gracefully, his eyes shifting to adjust to the light. He was a tall man with smooth dark hair pulled behind in a warrior's tail. His eyes were a commander's eyes, dark pools that could see what was there and what could be used. He was a man that cannot be called anything less than handsome and charismatic.

Cathon could not prevent the reaction he felt. His mouth drew back in, and his teeth were clenched tight in preventing himself from launching himself violently at the beast that had entered.

"Hello, gentlemen. Mind if I take a seat?" The man opened his mouth to reveal straight, white teeth. Perfect white teeth that clicked together like the sound of a steel trap closing on its prey. Taking the silence as an affirmative, the Dark One's emissary took his seat, his eyes appearing to wink.

"It is like a meeting of old friends, is it not?" He smiled, his eyes roaming across them. He met Cathon's hatred with a look of amusement, and he lounged back as if it was his own tent, and they were the visitors. "Congratulations, Generals. Your astuteness and flexibility astounds me. Quite a magnificent display yesterday, I do confess. But then, again, what is the blood of Manetheren but that? I admit that I take a little pride in the fight you're putting up against the inevitable. Lord of Manetheren to fellow Lords, of course." He gave his sly wink.

"You are nothing of Manetheren, Vanigan." Cathon slammed the table with a fist, nearly upsetting the lamp. But he became silent at a look from Aemon.

"Ah, Lawe, is this the way you treat the one who taught you all you know?" Piotor Vanigan leaned forward as if divulging a valuable secret, "Perhaps a little too well."

"What is it you are here to say?" Aemon interrupted.

"You have fought well. But good leaders know when to cut their losses. My terms are simple. If you will yield to me, one who was once a First Lord of Manetheren, your land and people will be spared, and the armies of my Master will be withdrawn from your soil. Your people can live in peace and harmony. As long as they raise no hand against the standard of Ba'alzamon. " His words were smooth and mesmerizing.

"A fair bargain." Cathon interjected, "If we were willing to sell our soul. Like you."

The look on Vanigan's face was almost hurt. "Perhaps if circumstances were different, Lawe, our places would be switched. I did not sell my soul. I give my loyalty freely to those whom I serve."

"You cannot expect us to actually accept your offer." Aemon pronounced, "You know we would never accept such. Anything less than unconditional surrender from you."

"I understand." His eyes narrowed. "But remember that I gave you a choice. Something that I was denied. You created me and think of me as a monster. But I gave you the opportunity to choose."

"You created yourself." Cathon exclaimed. "All your crimes and betrayals."

"You forced me on that path with your bitter persecution. And why? Because I can Channel? The way I was born. Do you strip the titles and deeds of the blind or exile the crippled? You fear those who have power, who could wield it beyond what you could comprehend. Your damned hypocrites!" He spat the last word.

"You will leave now. This meeting is completed." Aemon ignored the outburst.

"So be it. Death you have chosen. Death I will grant." Vanigan stood, a storm growing in his eyes, his visage twisted. He waved his hand, and a hurricane wind poured into the tent, scattering papers and buffeting the seated generals. The tent was ripped instantly from its lines, shredded to pieces and scattered into the sky. His voice exploded like a rush of air, "Know that you are utterly alone in this pathetic stand. No Covenant army readies to your aid. Your Tar Valon whore has played you to your doom."

Cathon sprang for his blade, catching the hilt. Vanigan stabbed down with blinding speed and an obsidian dagger trapped the general's arm to the desk by the sleeve. "Oops, I seem to have forgotten to check my weapon."

Then the Dreadlord turned into the circle of Ashenderai spear points. He opened his lips in a sneer, "Oh please." He pushed aside the two spears at his throat and strolled casually to his waiting horse. The Heart Guard's spears followed his exit until he leaped onto his pure white steed. He stared back then he and his men rode away.

"Don't touch the dagger." Airena warned, but Cathon did anyways, tapping carefully at the hilt with a finger. His hand flinched back at the pain coursing up the through his arm like a lance of lightning. He twisted a handkerchief around the hilt and plucked up it by the corner. It was a one-piece dagger with hilt and blade forged of the same lightless material. There was a small red etch on the blade, a small red hand. He slid it onto his belt. "I'll be sure to return to this."

"He is just as I remembered." Aemon sighed warily, "But I expected it."

"He's unraveled." Cysil stood up, "He needs a quick end here. We held him for too long, and he has never had patience. Perhaps he is afraid of what could happen to his army if he is still trapped here in two days."

"He denied the Covenant Army." Cathon re-belted his sword.

"Bluff." Aemon stared into the distance. No one cared to think of the alternative. Aes Sedai cannot lie. An Aes Sedai's promise is reality.

Cathon watched Airena depart, then murmured his own dismissal, hurrying after her.

"We need to talk." He said as he caught up.

"So that was him. The infamous Piotor Vanigan." She halted and turned to him.

"The Traitor, yes." Cathon studied her eyes for a flicker of any emotion. "A First Lord of Manetheren. My teacher and one of Manetheren's greatest heroes. Now High Dreadlord and our greatest shame."

"In his mind lies madness of the Taint. But in madness truth. I touched his mind. He is an angry man, obsessed with past wrongs." She sighed. "He is arrogant and casts no shields. I know what he knows. And perhaps that's what he wanted."

"That's good. You can tell me all he has planned. We can—"

"Madness poisons and so can the truth. Both have the power to kill. We digress. You are not here to talk about Vanigan. Or His Master."

"You said you wanted time to think."

"Yes, and my mind is now clear on what I must do, of which we both know. There is no future down that path. We are very much the same, General. We have our walls. We cannot live without them. I will not pretend that there is nothing between us. But, I trust in your pragmatism. Anything else?" Airena crossed her arms.

It was all Cathon could do to utter, "As my Lady wills."

She stared hard at him for a long minute, then a soft smile graced her lips. Perhaps with a trace of relief, as if the entire matter was solved.

But it was not. As she turned to leave, Cathon stood pondering whether to pursue the subject. But, he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. It was Warder, watching her departing back.

"Let it lie. Just my advice." The stoic man spoke more words than Cathon had ever heard him utter before. Cathon studied the shadow within the helmet that was Warder. Who was this man that stood ever in Airena's shadows? What has he learned and seen of the inner mettle of the woman that held his heart in a lock. The voice and demeanor was familiar, utterly familiar. And spoke now to the general like a known acquaintance. 

"Who are you?"

Warder was silent, then he lifted the helmet from his head. It was the face of the King, down to the eyes that always shined in thought and knowledge. But his countenance was clearly older and the hair was grayed.

"Aemon?" Cathon mouthed in astonishment, before he realized his error.

"No." The helmet came down once more. "But he bears my name."

"Prince Caar?" Cathon whispered incredulously. The legendary figure of Manetheren’s recent history. Beloved father to King Aemon Al'Caar. Abdicated the high seat for true love. But he was supposed to be dead. Slain in Mafal Dadaranell by Rhea. Everyone knew the Ballad of Caar One-Hand. This was impossible. The dead can not rise from their graves.

The late Caar tapped his left gauntlet. It made a hollow sound; there was no hand within. "The tale is not for you, Lawe Cathon. Never speak again of that name or title. I have paid a harsh price for existence. None must know I live and am here. Especially not my son. You and he are the only one who may recognize me, though you were but babes when you saw me last. Aemon already suspects me, even when I am armored as such."

"Why are you here—my Lord. Why are you her warder?"

"Her warder died in the north to my hands, and my penitence was to take his place. My story is over; yours is not. I have only my final debts to repay. Listen to her, Lawe. She is a Foreteller, rarest of the rarest of Aes Sedai, able to view flashes of the great Pattern of Ages. You have heard her foretellings, though you may not have believed it to be so. I am here because she knew I was to come and she broke the curse that kept me away. She knows my past, my future, and my destiny. Greater Forces have been working towards this moment for a very long time, and I am just as much a pawn as you. She can see much, but you cannot press her. The slightest change will destroy what she has worked long for. And I am here for the fate I must meet and to touch my soil once more. You are still to find yours.

"I have abdicated the throne and its trappings, but I ask you to heed my command. Let this matter with Airena die now. She and you have futures uncrossed. Learn your lesson from my tragedy. Will you lose everything for love? Do your job and she will do hers. And perhaps all will not be for naught." Then Caar was gone with a flutter of his borrowed color-shifting cloak, leaving the general silenced.


	31. Third Day

Stef woke up with a splitting headache, stumbling to his bare feet and shaking away the daze. He eyed the unfamiliar surrounding in confusion, and tried to piece together the events of last night, but couldn't pierce the haze. He touched the red linens he had cast away and the soft lacy pillow. His eyes lit upon the only other piece of furniture in the chamber, a dark mahogany bureau. He padded over and found his clothes and cloak neatly folded on its surface. There was a small clay vase with the slightly wilting Gilded Crowns that he had picked the other day. There was a small palm-sized mirror framed in bronze. And then there was a stack of folded yellow-edged letters bound in a faded blue ribbon, and weighted with a small medal. With a finger, Stef traced the cold iron contour of the Carmine Cross. It was only issued posthumously.

The door opened and Zira entered with a small tray, containing a small tin cup and a moist cloth. She swept her gaze from the empty bed to his location by the bureau.

"I did not expect you to wake so soon." She set her tray on the edge of the bed. "When they released you last night, you could barely walk on your own feet. Unacceptable given your condition."

"But it was necessary." Stef slipped on his shirt, wincing slightly at the spark of pain in his nerves. "I was the only survivor. Or so they told me. I was the only witness. And, by default, the only remaining suspect."

"Do you remember what they asked you last night? Did they do anything to you?"

Stef closed his eyes, and felt images slowly washing through his mind like sand in a sieve. They were disjointed memories blending together in his poison-addled mind. He remembered struggling to speak and make his voice heard, questions asked but which he could not answer. At first, he had struggled whether to reveal Tayren's identity. Tayren still had family in Manetheren—the discovery of his betrayal would ruin his mother and sister. But he must've told them, or else they would not have let him free.

As Stef sat down on the bed to pull up his trousers, Zira offered him the cup she had brought, "My own mix. It'll help you flush the toxin from your system."

He inhaled the soft floral steam and took a sip. It was slightly bitter but it opened his lungs and warmth slowly seeped through his body. He downed the cup, mumbling "Could use a shot of ale."

"One'd think you would learn a lesson already from last night." Zira replied disapprovingly.

"I guess I'm just a slow learner." Stef sat down on the bed beside Zira. "You know I have to go."

Zira did not reply. Stef sighed and motioned at the dresser, "Who was he? You said I reminded you of someone."

"He was my brother. Confident and proud, the perfect defender of nationalism." Zira bit her lips. "When the call came for volunteers, he immediately replied. He was in T’Caar Company. The Lost Company. Yes, I see you recognize the name. They were the ones that the bastard Vanigan led into the Forest of Death. One thousand men dead because of the unfounded loyalty in their cause and leader." She was as bitter as Stef had ever seen her, and her words poured forth in a ragged pattern. "Oh, I know what he would say. 'I am a soldier and death is my calling'. I've heard your soldier's creed. I've heard him repeat it to me as I have heard you. You two are so damn alike. You would've liked each other." Her words were sobs, and she buried her face in his shoulders. He held her there, and she grew quiet. The warm pressure of her cheek and body against him felt right, and her hair smelled faintly of dry lavender. And there they stayed for a moment frozen in time.

Finally she raised her head and sighed, "You're going to go." It was not a question.

He removed his mother's ring from his neck and slipped it into her hands. "I'll be back. Hold this for me. When we have won, I will return."

"Just stay for a little bit." She pleaded, as she melted needfully into his arms. He acquiesced.

It was late afternoon when he found a ride out towards the front. Walking through the mud and sheet of rain, his gear slung over his shoulder, he had come upon a convoy of loaded horse-drawn wagons at the foregate. A wagoneer, glancing at his uniform, shouted, "Need a lift, son?"

Nodding, Stef took a seat on the back of the wagon, pushing his waterlogged cloak to the side, his back leaning against the canvas-tied cargo. He made a fold in the canvas to block some of the rain from his head, and watched as the city of Manetheren dwindled. He did not think about what he was leaving. He did not think about where he was going. He did not think about the father’s sacrifice and the grief he should be feeling. He did not think about Zira’s wet tears and his smoldering longing. He did not think. Thinking would only reduce him to a shambling mess.

The trip was uneventful. The rain continued unabated, and occasionally, the farrier enlisted Stef’s aid in pushing the cart out of particularly deep mud holes. The cart finally eased to a stop at a point of hectic activity, where carts dumped their containers and immediately turned around.

After reporting to the controller pit and a thirty minute hike, Stef slid down the muddy incline to his squad's staging area. Muddy faces turned to watch his arrival. This was the moment of truth. Stef read their looks. Some relief, some skepticism, but mostly indecision. There was no doubt that they had been apprised of at least basic details of the night with likely a heaping dose of gossip or half-truths.

"Good to have you back, sarge." Cordin ended the awkward silence. There were grunts and mumbles in reply, and claps on his back. There was no doubt there were some reservations, but for all purposes, he was a soldier returning back into the fold, with nothing changed.

He dove back into his original life with vigor, pouring all of his attention to the constant forays of the Horde. There were Trollocs to kill, and after that, more Trollocs to kill. It was almost a relief to be occupied by the desperate mundane. He only had to think about what he had to do, and not about what the future held. The future be damned. Thinking about what could be could get a man killed.

Two days and two nights he passed such in the embankment. Three days they had to hold until the reinforcement arrived, and those three days Stef faithfully held. It was thus that Stef greeted the third day, leaning warily against the mud embankment. He stared across the fieldworks, hastily patched every hour. There is nothing like seeing the end of the marathon or poetically, the rainbow after the storm and hail. The smell of success, the belief that in the end, the struggles were all worth it.

There was an aura of eerie silence, save the wet splash of the Tarendrelle lapping rhythmically against the bank. Stef slept lightly to its soothing lullaby, closing his eyes more than being in actual restful sleep. But he knew the drill. Sleep was a valuable commodity, to be stolen in shifts and minutes. And right now was as good a time as any. The forays across the river had been dwindling, tapering off after the ceasefire the previous day. Stef had seen their emissaries arriving across the river, a man riding a pure white stallion leading the small human envoy, shaking foam off and trotting confidently through the hostile soldiers as if he belonged there. Though Stef had never seen that man before, he knew he hated him. But, there was a quiet peace that stirred gently in the ceasefire, until the emissaries stormed through the ranks and across the river in a fury, and sparking forth the battle once more, unabated through the night.

Stef shifted in his uncomfortable position, feeling the soreness of his cramped muscles in each movement. He peered across the softly steaming water, but there was only darkness. A slowly twisting darkness like a black pit of poisonous serpents. There would be a battle this day. The largest battle perhaps of the Trolloc Wars. There would be no alternative, no turning back. They had to crush the Horde quickly with the promised reinforcements from the White Tower. The hammer of the Covenant and the anvil of Manetheren. But, Stef certainly didn't look forward to it. Battles were won and bought, and there was only one currency. The only currency accepted universally.

He dug a half-eaten ration piece from his pouch – his last – and chewed carefully on the stale hardtack. The lingering effects of the poison still lingered in his systems, and his gums and teeth were more tender than usual. There was a slight tremor in his hand and a subtle stiffness in his joints.

The supply sergeant passed, dropping the provisions of the day, and finally tossing him a large crossbow-like piece, the arbalest. Stef examined the item, and then proffered it to the man Hawk, known for his piercing nose and the self-proclaimed archery expert of the squad.

"Can you handle an arbie, birdie?"

"I reckon so. About time they passed these toys out to the real men."

Stef just nodded, fingering the scavenged shield strapped to his mutilated arm and the daggers on his belt. He knew what was coming. He could hear the bugle calls and the ponderous hoofbeats. He made his way to each soldier, nudging the sleepers awake with his feet. But, most were wide awake. They were prepared and waiting. It was the third day.

A banner crested from the west, followed by a second, and a third. The highest was the Red Hand, the second was fire-winged Caldazar, and the third was Aemon's Wolfhead. Missing was the Shield of the Covenant. If all went as planned, they would soon be seeing the Rainbow Shield waving from the east.

The bannered group weaved through the narrow gap-paths in the fieldworks on their way to the river. They passed only a few yards from where Stef and his squad stood watching. In front were four harsh-faced Heart Guards, ashenderai cocked stiffly over their shoulder, their blazing eyes skimming across the milling soldiers. Three horsemen, drawn from each of the three grand-legions, carried the tall banners, lances and swords locked in their carriages.

Then came the man who was King. Accoutered in a full burnished steel armor, he rode proudly on his black chain-donninged charger. The Red Hand grazed his cloak and mantle, but his face was bare, and his hair bound today in a warrior's knot. His steeled hands rested calmly on ebony Alcride's reins. Sanction slept in its scabbard, its charmed hilt seemed to wink from the base of Aemon's belt. The King's steady gaze met the eyes of his subjects and his eyes were sad and brooding, knowing that many of those standing now will be dead at the end of the day and was seeking a way out. Stef had seen Aemon a few times in battle the past days. He was a king who loved peace, but a king taught to war. To his left rode the Marshall General Cathon in sign of deference.

Behind them followed six young women clad in simple white riding dresses on auburn mares. Upon the center of their garb was a simple red rose and each wore a scarlet glove on the left hand. They did not wear any obvious weapons and did not seem to serve any overt purpose. Stef did not recognize them at first, but their sigil eventually jogged his memory. He had seen them mostly in the company of Queen Eldrene, but did not understand why her handmaidens now accompanied the King. Twenty more Heart Guards brought up the flank.

They came to a stop before the river, the Heart Guards fanned out in front of the King, as if to protect him from the soldiers. The handmaidens stood behind the King, as if creating a shield between him and the river. Aemon touched something silvery on his chest and then Sanction, seemingly nodding to himself. There was silence. Even the catapults had stopped.

"Hear me." Arcanum began in an oddly muted voice, but somehow Stef could hear the words as if the King's lips were right near his ears. From the attention among all the soldiery, the same applied to all. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that all the Grand-Legions could hear clearly every single word that came from their King.

"Hear me, men of Manetheren. You know what is to come. I know what is to come. Before I left our city, the Queen asked me to relay a message to you men, and I will keep that promise."

He paused. "To the Husbands. To the sons and the fathers. To the brothers. To those who leave their homes to protect them. To those who are forced to war to keep the peace. We know your sacrifices. We know the price. Though we are never glad nor do we fully face the choices, we understand and we wait."

A massive hail of rocks began to slam into the opposite shore pounding at the opposition. It did not seem possible that the artillery could continue such a bombardment, but they succeeded. Stef knew instinctively its purpose. To drive any Trolloc from the waterfront to make landing successful. King Aemon continued unabated and undisturbed by the rain of rocks tearing asunder the opposite shore, his soft purposeful voice cutting through the din like a sharp knife.

"I could sing of valor or speak of glory and honor, but there are bards and minstrels in the world enough for purple prose, and we have fed you words enough to last you lifetimes. No, instead, I will do what none before me have done.

"I apologize. We apologize. You have given up everything, from birth to death for the sword, for the simple reward that should by birthright belong to you. I apologize for all the cruelties of fate and men subjected upon you, and hope that all hear in this letter my sincerity. I am so sorry. For the duties and responsibilities forced upon you. For the lack of choice we have given you. We sit upon the balancing point, the teetering edge between forces greater than we can comprehend. You should not be here. None of you belong here. For this I apologize. And apologies are empty without amends.

"Hear this all, hear this well. You are dismissed from the service of Manetheren. Bondsmen and liegemen, I have released you from your word and promise. Henceforth, you are all free. So speak I, the Queen of Manetheren, and through the voice of the High King. None of you are tied here to the approaching battle, and can leave if you desire. Without shame and without guilt. I give you your choice and your own destiny. Serve and lead yourself. I am only sad that this has come too late, but it has come nonetheless. For a late apology is still an apology.

"We are sorry. We are truly sorry. Forgive us.

"From the wives. From the daughters and the mothers. From the sisters and the widows. From Eldrene."

Aemon closed the letter, "Such is the word of  _ Ellisende _ . And her words are…mine."

Stef blinked, closing his slack mouth. He had heard the words of the King, but in his mind's eyes, he saw the voice of Eldrene, Zira, and even his mother. He kneeled, wondering why the words had stirred powerful emotions within him. His eyes blurred. He had not cried when his father had departed in his youth. He had not cried when his mother was laid to rest. He had not cried when he had lost his arm and hand. But, now he felt tears clutching at the edge of his lids. A simple apology had unraveled a closed trove of resentment that he had not even realized he had nurtured.

"None are bound fourth to our task. Your choice is your own, free men of Manetheren. If this is not your choice, leave without shame or fear, for the choice is yours." Aemon's words were now his own. "But if you will stay, then you will earn my eternal gratitude. The Rose of the Sun has given to you your birthright to choose."

Stef heard Zira's voice in his mind's eye, pleading for him to leave with her. And he could now. Duty had been freed from his shoulders, and the Queen had given him closure. He could return to the city, lift a surprised Zira into his arms, and carry her away from here. Into a  _ future _ . Two children and a puppy. A farm and a garden filled with gilded crowns. And a sword rusting over the mantle, never to be used. It was his choice to make.

Stef stumbled and kneeled in the mud, and dug his sword tip into the soft earth before him. And as if in communion, other soldiers fell in place.

"I am a free man of Manetheren, and I make this choice of my own will." His voice came fast and furious, digging into the wind like a hatchet, to blend with thousands of whispers into a roar. "To the Last Defense of Manetheren will I stand, and in my hand stands the sword. I wear Manetheren on my back, and I will defend her glory to my last breath. From the blood of Arad to the blood that flows within me, I am a soldier and death is my calling."

"Stand forth then, sons of Manetheren, upon your own feet," King Aemon replied.

Stef rose, and felt the familiar weight upon his shoulders. And all around him, the rest stood in union. The thunder of catapults scattered to a silence, leaving the opposite shore immersed in a dark dust cloud akin to the mouth of Thakan'dar.

"Let us fight then. For Manetheren." The King tucked the letter into his saddle. He turned his horse, and the Heart Guard split around him. He drew the legendary greatsword Sanction, and charged into the brackish river.

" _ Carai an Manetheren! Carai an Ellisende _ !" The words came into Stef’s mouth and he sprang forward. Men skidded down the slope, into the frothing water. King Aemon cut through the river as the wedge-point, the Heart-Guard easily keeping with his steed. Behind rode the Queen's Handmaidens and the Generals, and then the flood of Three Grand-Legions of men now madly in love with their queen.

Stef forded hard through the water, but the footing was slippery. The waterbed was piled with layers of Trolloc corpses that had expired over the two days, and their bloated bodies trapped his boots at every step. The dark brackish water seeped into his clothes, sucking noisily into his boots. Then, they reached hard traction, and they were upon the shore in a sweep.

Stef pulled his blade and clambered up the dusty incline. Debris from the bombardment crunched under his feet. A hairy arm broke free from a pile of wreckage, closing around the sergeant's ankle. With a smooth motion, Stef sliced down with his sword and the monstrous hand fell free. They broke through the choking dust into the waiting ranks of braced Trollocs.

Aemon was the first into the shadowspawn, his greatsword cutting down droves of grotesque defenders with each swing, until they fell back away from his fury. The Heart Guard rained death at his flank, their deadly skills and Ashenderai's long range kept back any attacks on his flanks. The handmaidens rode through the holes in the defense, still unarmed. The mixed cavalry and infantry charged was not far behind.

“Footmen prepare to pass cavalry forward!  _ Los Valdar Cuebiyari!  _ Forward! For the Honor of Caldazar! Caldazar!” The command came for Stef’s infantry squad to press past the Heart Guards. 

"Together now. Pick your targets." Stef yelled to his squad, and he braced his sword with his handless arm, aiming for a goat-faced Trolloc directly in front. He ducked under its scythe, and jammed his sword into its chest. He locked his shoulder with the Trolloc's abdomen, leveraged his body, and heaved with all his strength. The Trolloc toppled back, smothering the swings of its comrades behind him. Stef clambered over the fallen Trolloc, and slashed into the unprepared shadowspawn behind him. His squad slammed through beside him and began to carve their path into its heart.

Stef’s breaths came in exhausted gasps and his arm strained from the stress of impacts. But, his eyes were clear and no tension ran boiling through his nerves. He was calmer than he had ever been. He was no longer fighting because he was supposed to. He was fighting because he chose to.

They fought onto the ruins of what once must have been a bustling town at the outskirts of greater Manetheren. The cobblestone avenues where merchants and hawkers shouted and mothers shopped for bargains were now covered with struggling men and beasts. The houses where generations had dwelled were gutted and belched forth slew of enemies.

A sudden shadow sparked Stef’s instincts, and he ducked aside, narrowly dodging a huge slab of marble, slamming into the ranks. He rolled, his sword gripped tight in hand, and immediately focused on the rooftop of what must have been the mayor's residence. Another projectile departed from the roof, drilling into the ranks.

"With me." Stef waved his sword. He cut his way towards the building, meeting the guarding Trolloc with a blow to the face from his shield, snapping its head back, and following with a sword to the exposed throat.. "Breach and secure." He motioned, and switched his sword for a dagger. Two soldiers kicked in the door, sending the waiting Trolloc stumbling back from the force. Stef sent his dagger through and into the throat of the shadowspawn. The door guards were in first, and then the rest of the squad streamed through, with Stef at the back, a second dagger in hand.

"Stairs." In a wedge formation, they sliced through the milling Trollocs, towards the circular stairway halfway down the hall. A hulking beast blocked the way, an ugly spiked mace gripped in its massive grip. Stef wasted no time placing his dagger between its red-flamed eyes. The beast toppled backwards, its massive bulk decimating the railing and the already fire-gutted foundation. The stairway crashed in a cloud of dust and debris.

The squad formed around the opening, keeping the Trollocs back. Stef bent his knee, and began to boost soldiers up through the hole. As the men began to disappear into the ceiling, the Trollocs became more bold, until four soldiers remained, fighting embittered.

"Now!" A voice came from above.

Stef jumped, lifting his arms up, and feeling support from above, as he was pulled up. A lunging Trolloc was greeted with a sharp kick to the chin. Then he was through the hole and into the second floor. Only a few Trolloc bodies littered the floor. Apparently, the shadowspawn were not as concentrated on the second floor.

"Quick, to the roof before they use the other stairs." Stef led the way, eyes scanning from side to side. He still had one dagger left, and the squad was in good shape. When they came within sight of the stairs, they found it guarded by a Trolloc sentinel. Before it could raise alarm, it was silenced by Stef’s last dagger in his throat. Stef motioned them to a stop around the staircase, and retrieved his dagger and crept up towards the roof. He peeked through, scanned quickly, and ducked back down.

Stef pointed at the ceiling three times with three fingers. Then he was through, blade bared, his squad close behind. Three lightly armored onager crews were blasting away from the rooftop, oblivious to the silent death from below. Stef came behind the closest Trolloc and slashed its throat with a jerk. Around him were more silent thumps, as the rest of the squad did their work.

"Guard the stairs." Stef pointed to three soldiers and then turned to Hawk. "Can you get them to work?"

"Not with an untrained crew." He replied.

Stef leaned over the roof. The battle was still fierce in the road, with the Band making headway with the Horde's artillery silenced. He pointed towards the three onagers, "Then we need to d-."

"Fade!" A doorguard called.

"Not this again." Stef stared at the doorway. The three guards fell back in the face of the leading Halfman. One soldier was too slow or too exhausted, and a blow that should've been glancing became fatal. A second soldier found his aim true, stabbing solidly into the Fade's chest, but was flung away to slide nearly off the ceiling, clutching the edge. The third retreated hastily back.

The Halfman charged forward, but jerked to the side, a long Arbalest bolt through the chest trapping him to the side of a chimney. Three more bolts pinned the fade's arm and legs to the wall. Stef did not hesitate, moving forward upon the temporarily disabled Fade. He cut away the Fade's armed hand and plucked up the gleaming black sword. It was like touching pure grease. Stef could feel dark malevolence seeping into his skin, and tossed the sword away from the spawn's reach. The Fade writhed and gnashed, then fell silent where it was trapped. But it was still much alive, its eyes following Stef with pure venom. The sergeant tossed the sword aside with disgust and re-wielded his own clean steel.

"Good shot, Hawk." Stef commanded, "We've got us a prisoner, boys."

"Company approaching." The last doorguard called, "Red cloaks. Looks like we took the building."

"Leave the Fade to them. We have more rooftops to clear." Stef leaped from the edge of the roof, landing on the top of another infested rooftop, populated by the rare Trolloc archers. His squad followed suit, and they cut down the unprepared archers with ease.

The roof shivered underneath their feet, nearly tumbling Stef off the edge.

"What the bloody ashes was that?" Stef was answered by the boom of a fireball burning through the street, plowing a blackened furrow behind it, bowling aside men.

Cordin pointed to one of the few intact towers in the town. "It came from there. Top floor."

"Hawk. How many bolts left in the arbie?"

"One."

"Make it count."

"I'm on it. " Hawk unlimbered his arbalest, and propped it against his arm and shoulder. A second fireball spewed from the tower, spraying down upon the battle on human and Trolloc alike.

The ground shivered, and Stef sprung around to see Trollocs landing from another roof adjacent to theirs. His squad immediately reacted, diving into the newly arrived shadowspawn.

"Keep them off Hawk." Stef shouted, intercepting a Trolloc's advance.

"I think he spotted me." Hawk groaned. A heavy explosion rocked the building as a firewall sprayed off its wall, barely missing the roof.

"Shoot now!" Stef slammed the Trolloc in his face with his hilt, and kicked him off the edge. He crouched to dodge the lunge of a second one, and flipped it off after its brethren. He glanced around to see the flash of a fireball burning towards him. He dove, grabbing Hawk, and they tumbled away under a ledge. He felt the crisp of flames just barely missing his back in mid-air.

"I got him." Hawk exclaimed as he picked himself up, obviously to his near-miss. "One down, six to go."

The fireball had left a trail of embers, but the squad were mostly intact, and mopping up the rest of the Trolloc. Below them, the Band was forcing through the streets, house by house. There was a boom of onagers firing into the Trolloc ranks as crews began working the captured machines, which should last them until the Thunderlord could ferry his catapults across the river.

"They knew we would come today. No Trolloc would have prepared these plans and onagers on rooftops." Stef scanned the battle.

"Reinforcements." Hawk called, drawing the sergeant's attention to soldiers appearing from around the corner of the stairwell. "We've got this all cleared!" He called to the approaching red cloaks.

Stef opened his mouth to greet them, when he felt uneasiness at their approach, at their carry. Then, their leader raised his bow, and its arrow took Hawk through the throat.

The next arrow skipped through the spot Stef was standing, but the sergeant had already dodged to a roll. Arrows streamed across the rooftop, taking a quarter of Stef’s squad down. Then the assailants drew swords—Manetheren gladius—and smashed into the surprised defenders.

Stef raised his blade in time to ward away the first onslaught. The attacker was unquestionably a man. He looked, dressed, and fought like a soldier of the Band of Red Hand, and his eyes stared back with sentience.

"Why are you doing this?" Stef pressed, staring into those intelligent eyes, desperately seeking answers. "Why are you fighting us?"

There was no hate or bloodlust in the man's eyes, as there would have been for a Trolloc. Instead there was the grim determination of a soldier. From close up in melee, Stef saw that the man's accoutrement was not entirely identical to his. Upon his cloak was the Red Hand, but within rested a black flame as if it was scorched there.

Stef was forced back by the man's ferocity. He could not kill the man. Not simply because he wasn't trained for the task, but that his mind wouldn't let him. Stef was a soldier—killing humans was anathema. But as he was slowly pushed towards the edge, his sense of survival over-ruled his conscience. He blocked an ill-prepared thrust, and slashed at the arm to disable him. But his assailant stumbled at the last second, and the sword sunk through the chest.

"No!" Stef stared at the sword in the man's chest. He had not meant to kill him. The man collapsed, slipping from the blade. His eyes still stared back, then his lips moved, and spoke.

"We have returned." His accent was unmistakably one that belonged to Manetheren. Then he died.

Stef stared confusedly at the rooftop. Around him were the fallen of Manetheren, where brothers had slain brothers. But why? His squad had won, but only half were still standing. The rest had fallen in surprise and shock.

"Sir, what happened here?" Cordin asked, his shoulders shaking as he stared down at his own man he was forced to kill.

Stef kneeled, staring at the face of the man he had murdered. He was about the same age as Stef, and showed the same ravages of war. It was like gazing into a mirror, or perhaps the future. His hand touched the cloak, his fingers running across the Red Hand and the Black Flame, then to the lapel. A tiny sigil rested there unique to every company of the Band. Stef recognized it.

"T’Caar Company." Stef uttered. Like its namesake, T’Caar Company had been ingrained into the lore and legacy of Manetheren, and its tragedy in the same grain as its namesake. "Apparently, they were not lost in the Forest of Death after all."

"What are you saying, sir?"

Stef could not tell whether to cry or laugh. "He was the one who led them into the Forest of Death. We had thought he had betrayed the company into a trap. But we never found the bodies." He gestured at the bodies littering the rooftop. "But the dead walk once more. They went willingly with him."

"Who?"

"Vanigan. Piotor Vanigan the traitor. And the Lost Company has returned with him." Stef shook his head, and turned the body, seeking for what he knew must be there. He pulled the cloak from the corpse, and turned it to the inside. A soldier always wrote his name upon the inside fold, so he could be identified if his body was too mutilated by battle or spawn.

It was there in bold black blood-ink. Sandric Coutir it spelt in chicken scrawl, but there was no doubt to what it read. No doubt to what Stef had just done. The sergeant leaned over, heaving the emptiness of his stomach. He had eaten little in days, and what came forth burnt his throat and left his eyes stinging. He crawled to the edge of the rooftop where he stared helplessly at the disarray in the Band.

The Lost Company were unleashed upon the soldiers of Manetheren, and had virtually destroyed the front lines in their attack. They had flooded the rooftops and their arrows were stitching death through the ranks. It was difficult now to tell who was friend and foe.

"We're being eviscerated down there." Stef whispered to himself. He crawled back to the body, staring into its familiar eyes and finally closed them.

"Sir, we need to do something." Cordin called. He raced towards the edge.

"No, you'll die!" Stef’s blurry eyes followed the soldiers' jump down into the battle. He stumbled to his feet. "Cordin!" The sergeant's hand found his sword, and he leaped down after the young recruit.

He landed in a knot of Vanigan's soldiers, hitting the ground hard but with no injury. He flashed his sword through the midst of red, felling traitors after another. He was like a man possessed, his swords raining death among the men. His sword breezed through the soft flesh. It was not like the flesh of a Trolloc, hard and unyielding. Men were weaker, kept alive only by a thin shell. But each man he slayed drew pain in his own mind, leaving a lasting psychic scar. 

He struck drunkenly at another soldier, who blocked his blow, and shouted, "It's me! Sarge, it's me!"

Stef shook his head, and stared into Cordin's eyes. Then he felt hands seizing his shoulders, and shaking him slightly. He glanced around at the familiar faces of his squad who had followed. He blinked his eyes, "I'm alright. Let me go. Let me go, damnit."

He tore away, and glanced at the dead men at his feet. At the dead men all around.

"We have to get back." Cordin said, "Sarge, you fought like a demon. But we can't hold here much longer."

"I was a demon." Agony seized his lips. "But you're right." T’Caar Company had shattered their momentum, and now the Trollocs were forcing the disheveled soldiers back.

"Where is the forsaken Covenant!" Stef screamed. "Where is bloody Tar Valon!"

The call came. The Trollocs boiled down upon the men, tearing across the ranks like a fever. There was no stopping them. Those who stood their ground were broken. Stef waved his squad back, and they fought for their lives. They were pushed back harder and faster, and they lost ground ten-fold faster than they had gained them.

"Help the King!" Someone shouted in desperation. Stef stared at the tornado of blades storming across what once had been a marketplace. King Aemon was surrounded by no less than five fades and two Dreadlords, and a thick ring of Trollocs. The surviving Heart Guards fought desperately against their enclosement, their ashenderai striking down shadowspawn with each blurred motion. But their already few numbers were whittling down faster and faster. Fire and blue lightning crackled over the King's forces, but scattered harmlessly away as if skipping over a shield. Then fire exploded from the hands of the Handmaidens at Aemon's side, flaring across a Dreadlord, and setting him aflame.

"Those women! They're channelers!" Stef gasped.

"But they're not enough." Cordin answered, "We must help!"

A Heart Guard fell to the blade of the Fade. And a second. Then, the ring of Heart Guards broke to the pressure of the pack of Myrddraal. And the Trolloc Horde rushed in.

"To the King now!" Stef hacked his way towards the marketplace, but the resistance was tough and the movement slow.

With the defensive ring broken, the King faced an onslaught on all side. The Queen's Handmaidens blazed with cold lightning but they were struggling hard against the last Dreadlord. The King was the sole focus of the Fades and Trollocs, but he would not go easy. Sanction howled through the air, but not even the legendary greatsword could stop the inevitable. A fade plunged his blade through the Alcride's maned neck, and Aemon plunged away from sight.

"No!" Stef fought with desperation. Fire blazed and crackled over the market place from the direction of the approaching Aes Sedai Airena, but the Trollocs did not shy away from her weaves, their eyes only thirsting for the royal target that was almost theirs. At the other end, General Cathon cut his way towards the beleaguered King at the head of a squad of Heart Guard cavalry. But, both were bogged down in heavy resistance. Time was running out.

From nowhere, an armored figure surfaced, cleaving through shadowspawn. The color-shifting cloak distorted his shape, and he moved like a wraith, breaking through shadowspawn like they were not there. The man called Warder cut past two Fades beside him, taking a glancing blow to his helmet. His helmet shifted and fell away, revealing the face of…Aemon? No, the face was older, but the resemblance was uncanny.

Then King Aemon resurfaced, his own helmet lost but his sword still in hand. He stared at his likeness in the Warder, uttering words lost in the din of battle. Then, his rescuer seized the King's shoulder and shoved him towards his approaching men, shouting "You must leave!" as Stef finally burst upon the scene.

The man called Warder and who looked like the King was surrounded by the Fades, and his swings stalled for time, covering for Aemon’s retreat. But even with his power and speed, he was no match to so many, and he was swallowed by the darkness, still fighting.

Aemon stood unmoving as if in shock, until Heart Guards grabbed his arms and pulled him deeper into his reinforcing soldiers. Stef stood at his flanks, warding away blows by the enraged Trollocs.

"Retreat." Aemon finally spoke, his voice distant and choked in emotions. "We have lost too much today. The Covenant has abandoned us. We will retreat!"

Hacking away, the Band backed away, leaving thousands upon thousands of their own dead behind. It was a fight for survival now, and they were losing.


End file.
